THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  ILLINOIS 


LIBRARY 


^ From  the  collection  of 
^ Julius  Doerner,  Chicago 
§ Purchased,  1918. 


Return  this  book  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below.  A 
charge  is  made  on  all  overdue 
books. 

U.  of  I.  Library 


9324-S 


Mrm  ttour 


LcYDIA  F7INMAN  (@ASB. 


PUBLISHED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


DANVILLE,  WISCONSIN. 
1882. 


James  Guilbbrt,  Printer,  Chicago. 


2^  AhA.S. 


/// 


TO 


MY  FATHER  AND  MOTHER, 

THIS  VOLUME  IS  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIIiED, 
WITH  REGRET  THAT  THE  TRIIJUTE  IS 
NOT  MORE  WORTHY  THEIR 
ACCEPTANCE. 


700709 


PREFACE. 


The  poems  which  follow  have  been  written  through  an 
interval  of  several  years,  to  while  away  the  leisure  hours  of 
my  home  life.  Many  of  them  have  been  given  to  the  public 
through  the  leading  papers  of  Chicago,  and  elsewhere,  and 
have  met,  I may  say,  with  a favorable  reception.  While  not 
claiming  for  them  a high  degree  of  merit,  the  partiality  of 
friends  has  prevailed  upon  me  to  collect  them  and  give  them 
a permanent  form  in  this  little  volume.  And  so  I launch  my 
little  bark  in  the  great  sea  of  literature,  expecting  neither  fame 
nor  fortune,  simply  hoping  for  an  appreciation  from  the  friends 
who  are  dear  to  me,  and  to  whose  pleasure  may  this  little  book 
minister. 

L.  H.  C. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

The  Wisconsin,  ........  9 

The  Lover’s  Choice,  . . . . . .•  14 

Mother,  . . . . . . . . .15 

When  the  Children  are  Home,  .....  16 

Stephen  and  Rachael,  .......  18 

Hymn  to  the  Fisher-wives,  . . . . . 19 

A Merry  Old  Maid,  . . ■ . . . .21 

My  Old  Sweet-heart,  ......  22 

A Problem,  . . . . . . . .23 

The  Maniac,  . . " . . . . . 24 

Watching,  ........  25 

Little  we  Know,  . . • . . . . . 27  ’ 

A Battle  Scene,  . . . . ’ . . .28 

Riches,  ........  30 

Daisy-Chains,  ........  32 

My  Song,  ........  33 

When  I am  Growing  Old,  . . . . . -35 

A Bird  Song,  .'......  36 

The  Canceled  Names,  . . . . . • . -37 

Phoebe,  ........  38 

To  My  Sister  Mina,  . . < . . . .40 

Blush  Roses,  .......  41 

The  Maid  and  the  Sea,  . . . . . .42 

At  Confession,  .......  42 

Her  Story,  ........  46 

At  the  Foot  of  the  Hill,  ......  48 

The  Two  Painters,  . . . • . . . .49 

The  Lemonweir,  .......  50 

A Silhouette,  ........  52. 

Baby  Fingers,  . . . . . . . 53 

Perplexity,  ........  54 


6 


(CONTENTS, 


Six  Years,  Brother, 

One  i)ay,  . . . , 

To-morrow,  .... 
Love’s  Matliematics, 

A Heart  T>caf, 

Broken  Chords,  . . . . 

Weary,  .... 
Song  of  the  Farmer’s  Wife, 
Happiness,  .... 
Wouldn’t  You.^  . . . . 

The  Man  who  Died  for  Me, 

Give  us  back  the  Laurel, 

Deceived,  .... 
After  Many  Days, 

Idlers,  ' . 

Elfin, 

Why  Should  I.'^  . 

Farmer  Grimes,  . . . . 

Lilies,  . . ' . 

The  Poets,  . . . . 

Sparrows,  .... 
Children,  . . . . 

Love  Making, 

Flirtation  Weary, 

My  Ships,  .... 
After  all,  . . . . . 

What  I Will  Take,  . 

Some  Day,  . . . . 

Met  and  Parted, 

A Prosy  Story  in  Homel}’^  Rhyme, 
Forget,  .... 

To  My  Sister,  . • . . 

God’s  Children,  . . • . 

Two  Lives,  . . . . 

Thorns,  .... 

Your  Castles  and  Mine, 


55 

56 

57 

58 

59 

60 

61 

62 

64 

65 

66 
67 

69 

70 

71 

72 

74 

75 

79 

80 
ai 

82 

83 

84 

85 

86 
88 

89 

90 

91 

94 

95 

96 

97 
99 

lOI 


CONTENTS.  7 

Twilight  Guests,  .......  102 

Kisses  of  Peace,  .......  103 

Autumn  Time,  .......  104 

Into  the  Evening,  .......  105 

In  the  Moonlight,  .......  106 

Good-bye,  . . . . . . . .107 

A Fable,  ........  108 

Mismeasured,  ........  109 

True  unto  Death,  . . . . . . . m 

Delirium,  . . . . . . ■ .112 

Only  a News-boy,  . . . . ■ . . 114 

Serenade  to  Morning,  . . . . . • • 1^5 

The  Hungering,  . . . . . ..  . 117 

Dreams,  . . . . . . . . .118 

Drift-wood,  . . . . . . . . 119 

Silver  Hair,  . . . . . . . .121 

Wrecks,  ........  122 

Gone  Astray,  . . . . . . . .124 

Ode  to  Time,  . . . . . . . 125 

My  Childhood  Home,  .......  126 

By  Plays,  ........  129 

Sooner  or  Later,  . . . . . . .130 

Recompense,  .......  131 

An  Answer,  ........  132 

In  the  Corn,  . . . . . . . . 133 

Infatuation,  ........  135 

Mine  Own,  . . . . . . . . 136 

The  Hospital  Nurse,  .......  137 

The  Unfinished  Lesson,  ......  142 

School-time,  ........  143 

Do  You  Remember,  May.^^  .....  145 

Lost  and  Found,  .......  147 

Under  the  Stars,  .......  149 

October,  . . . . . . . . .150 

The  Lost  Chord,  .......  151 

An  Allegory,  . . . . . . . .152 


8 


CONTl<:X'l  s. 


The  World  and  You,  . . . . . . 154 

The  Witch  is  in  the  Cream,  . . . . . .1^5 

At  the  gate,  ........  156 

Unmasked,  ........  158 

Beside  the  Still  Waters,  ......  159 

Her  Ideal,  ........  161 

Into  Mischief,  .......  163 

When  the  Cows  Come  Home,  ......  166 

Misunderstood,  .......  168 

Idols,  .........  169 

The  Love-Vine,  .......  170 

Shame  on  the  Man,  .......  172 

Matilda  the  Spinster,  . . ...  . • 173 

Peter-Bird,  ........  175 


THE  WISCONSIN. 


O proud  Wisconsin,  thou  hast  rolled 
Thy  currents  wild,  and  strong,  and  bold. 
For  centuries  with  steadfast  sway 
That  onward  sweeps  thy  tide  to-day; 
Resistless,  dark,  and  calm,  and  deep. 

How  seem  you  here  in  tender  sleep. 

And  there  with  laughter  bubbling  o’er. 
Then  beating  restless  ’gainst  the  shore. 
And  yonder  mirroring  the  sheen 
Of  sunlight  on  thy  walls  of  green. 

The  yellow  sand-rocks  worn  and  old. 
Bend  low  to  touch  their  locks  of  gold 
And  head-dress  green,  upon  thy  face. 

And  who  could  know,  with  here  no  trace 
But  calmness  in  thy  depths  ^o  still. 

Where  narrow  walls  resist  your  will. 

The  waters  rave,  and  fume,  and  sound 
Like  angry  demons  caged  and  bound. 

In  rage  you  lash  the  crags  that  stand 
Like  adamantine  walls  so  grand. 

The  “Guardian  Rocks”  that  almost  seem 
To  clasp  their  hands  across  the  stream. 
You  over-leajD  like  beasts  at  bay. 

And  shoot  the  rocky,  narrow  way. 

Then  hush  at  once  the  angry  tone 
Of  fury,  that  you  blush  to  own. 


lO 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


And  sink  to  calm  and  peaceful  rest, 

Like  babe  so  fair  on  mother’s  breast, 

And  softly  sing  the  lullaby 

That  down  the  stream  in  echoes  die. 

Wisconsin  proud,  in  sunny  dreams 
Thou  wast  not  glad  like  sister  streams. 

For  thou  didst  feel  ambition’s  aim 
And  long  for  monumental  fame. 

Thine  artist  soul  and  artist  hand 
Must  mark  thy  path  with  steps  more  grand. 
Thy  walls  with  marv’lous  scenes  bedeck’d, 
vSeemed  carved  by  human  architect. 

With  wiverns  grim  and  chevroned  naves. 
With  turrets  grand  and  griffins  grave, 

And  sand-rocks  gold,  and  red,  and  grey. 

Seem  laid  in  wondrous  parcpietry. 

’Neath  crannied  ledges  high  and  wide. 

The  sun  fays  dance  upon  the  tide, 

And  clouds  their  brows  from  veils  unfold. 
And  rainbows  rise  from  pots  of  gold. 

Beneath  the  rude  arcade  of  domes 
The  Dryads  dwell  in  cavern  homes 
Where  Nymphs  the  wind-harp’s  songs  repeat. 
And  Naiads  time  with  dancing  feet. 

In  grottos  here  the  Fairies  dwell 
And  weave  their  witching,  magic  spell 
O’er  sporting,  dashing  waters  pale, 

That  rise  a mystic  fairy  veil. 

Then  circling,  change  in  sunny  air 
To  sparkling  gems  of  beauty  rare; 


« 


THE  WISCONSIN. 


1 I 


In  chiseled  caves  the  shadows  grey 
With  Imps  of  darkness  hide  away, 

Where  dwells  the  shriveled  Witch  so  grim 
Who  feeds  her  snakes  by  moonlight  dim; 
The  phantom  chamber  where  abide 
The  souls  whose  clay  thy  waters  hide — 
Who  manned  those  sand-stone  ships  of  State 
Chained  to  thy  shore  by  cruel  fate — 

That  long  and  wait  the  time  when  she’ll 
Their  anchors  weigh  and  set  them  free. 

Who  knows  what  ghosts  their  revels  hold 
Among  these  canyons  dim  and  old? 

Who  knows  what  ancient  gods  possess 
These  lab’rinth  ways,  and  in  distress 
Await  the  time  when  they  again 
Foretell  events  to  trustful  men? 

Wisconsin  proud,  in  flow  and  swell, 

The  red  man  loved  thy  waters  well. 

I Tow  oft  the  Indian’s  swift  canoe 
Has  darted  thy  wild  rapids  through, 

And  feast-fires  and  the  beacons  bri  ght 
Oft  tinged  thy  waves  with  lurid  light. 

The  hunted  braves  their  foes  did  mock 
And  leap  thy  stream  from  rock  to  rock, 
While  baffled  pale  face  gazed  spellbound 
In  fear,  where  waters  hissed  and  frowned 
Below.  The  dusky  mother  ]Droud, 

Baptized  her  babes  in  thy  foam-cloud ; 

’Mid  dangerous  swirls  with  ready  will 
The  Indian  youths  oft  tried  their  skill ; 


12 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS, 


And  often  has  thy  shining  rays 
Thrown  back  tlie  maiden’s  tender  gaze, 

As  she  wore  in  her  braids  the  band 
Of  heads  a lover’s  dusky  hand 
Had  fashioned,  and  had  l:)ound  it  there. 
Because  she  seemed  to  liim  most  fair. 

From  towering  clifTs  the  lover  brave 
Oft  plunged  beneath  thy  foaming  wave. 
Then  rose  and  swam  the  rapid  run, 

To  greet  the  bride  his  brav’rv  won. 

J^iit  once  a chief,  so  legends  say. 

Sank  in  the  seething  waves  for  aye. 

And  she,  in  bridal  robings,  who 
Sat  near  the  shore  in  birch  canoe. 

The  chant  of  death  heard  soft  and  low, 
Veered  her  light  bark  with  wail  of  woe. 
And  plunged  into  the  swirling  pool. 

And  each  new  moon,  the  legends  rule. 

The  Indian  maid  and  lover  glide 
In  white  canoe  the  dashing  tide. 

Wisconsin  proud,  thy  ebbing  flood 
Has  often  been  deep  stained  with  blood. 

The  horrid  crimes  thy  waves  conceal. 

Thy  tongueless  walls  will  ne’er  reveal; 

If  lips  so  silent  could  but  speak, 

Their  tales  would  blanch  the  reddest  cheek; 
What  cruel  deeds  and  brave  were  done. 
What  battles  lost  and  battles  won; 

How  oft  the  wolt’s  bay  o’er  the  wave 
Of  pale  faced  foes,  the  warning  gave; 


THE  WISCONSIN. 


13 


How  oft  thy  rocks  have  heard,  alack! 
The  war  cry  fierce,  and  hurled  it  back; 
How  oft  the  dying  chant  was  sung. 

And  down  thy  waves  by  echoes  rung; 
Upon  these  craggy  rocks  below 
A warrior  dashed  a rival  foe, 

And  here  a captive  pale  was  bound 
With  burning  fagots  piled  around. 

On  yonder  towering  cliffs  so  high 
A chief  was  chained  and  left  to  die. 

And  trembling  pines  along  the  shore 
Yet  whisper  all  their  terrors  o’er. 

But  flow  thou  on,  proud  stream,  until 
The  voice  of  doom  bids  thee  be  still. 

And  stern  eternity  shall  rock 
Thy  waves  to  slumber  sweet,  and  lock 
Them  there  for  aye,  while  those  who  rest 
In  calm  of  peace  so  pure  and  blest 
Upon  thy  shores — may  they  have  found 
Their  joyous,  happy  hunting  ground. 


M 


r.KISUKK  HOUR  POEMS. 


THE  LOVER’S  CHOICE. 


or  course  I love  Howers,  my  clearest, 

When  I l^ave  my  choosing,  you  know. 
May  1 cull  the  ones  I think  sweetest 
Of  all  the  sweet  flowers  that  grow.? 

Some  think  that  the  rosebuds  are  fairest. 

But  I love  the  one  that’s  half  blown. 

It  blooms  with  its  rare,  dainty  crimson 
On  lips  I would  press  to  my  own. 

And  there  are  the  beautiful  pansies. 

With  true  hearts  of  heaven-dyed  blue; 
They’re  found  in  the  eyes  of  my  sweetheart. 
With  love  glances  thrilling  me  through. 

I’ll  take,  too,  the  lily  most  charming. 

That  blossoms  in  all  the  wide  land, 

That  looks  with  its  five  perfect  petals 
So  like  to  my  darling’s  fair  hand. 

O yes!  for  you  said  1 might  gather 
The  blooms  I thought  fairest  and  best. 
With  roses,  and  pansies,  and  lilies, 

I never  would  care  for  the  rest. 


MOTHER. 


15 


MOTHER. 

In  evening  dreams  of  bliss  I feel 
Her  kisses  fond  and  sweet, 

And  hear  a whispered  prayer  that  is 
With  tenderness  replete. 

And  O,  how  pure  that  smiling  face — 

The  eyes  that  look  in  mine, 

With  glances  full  of  joy  and  peace. 

And  love  almost  divine. 

And  just  how  deep  that  mother-love 
- They  say  I’ll  never  know 
Until  the  coffin  lid  is  closed 
Above  her  lips  of  snow; 

And  just  how  priceless  are  the  prayers 
And,  blessings  they  have  told. 

I’ll  never  learn  till  in  God’s  home 
The  records  shall  unfold. 

It  may  be  true;  but  well  I know 
In  this  rough,  weary  way. 

With  mother’s  smiles,  and  mother’s  prayers, 
•My  feet  could  never  stray. 

If  some  day  I should  miss  her  face 
And  tread  the  path  of  sin, 

I know  one  thought  of  mother’s  tears 
Would  lead  me  back  again. 


LKISURI-:  HOUR  FORMS. 


1 6 


But  if  before  her  I should  pass 
From  out  life’s  woe  and  care, 

Though  all  that  Heavenly  throng  were  near 
I’d  miss  my  mother  there; 

For,  though  the  joy  of  that  fair  home 
l^eyond  our  knowing  be. 

While  mother  lingered  on  life’s  shore 
’T would  seem  no  home  to  me. 


VVaiEN  THE  CHILDREN  ARE  HOME. 


Oh,  the  children  are  home,  and  their  mother  and  I 
Fondly  gaze  on  their  features,  too  happy  to  sigh. 

And  all  else  is  forgotton,  for  life’s  sweetest  chimes. 

Ring  again  in  our  spirits  their  musical  rhymes. 

As  we  echo  the  rippling  laughter  with  pride — 

That  we’ve  longed  for  and  missed  by  the  old  fireside. 

For  once  more  they  are  children — the  boys  and  the  girls. 
Though  the  bright  cheeks  are  faded  and  silvered  the  curls; 
Though  the  foreheads  are  furrowed  with  care  and  with  pain. 
And  the  forms  are  all  stalwart — they’re  children  again; 

And  if  one  dares  to  hint  they  are  older  than  when 
In  the  meadows  they  danced  with  the  butterflies,  then 
We  will  brand  him  a slanderer  where  he  may  roam; 

We  are  all  young  again  when  the  children  are  home. 


WHEN  THE  CHILDREN  ARE  HOME. 


T7 


Here’s  our  eldest,  his  dark  hair  is  threaded  with  grey, 

And  the  baby — the  baby — how  old  is  she  pray? 

There’s  our  captain — the  dandy — and  Mollie  the  pet. 

The  old  loves  of  the  ingle  they  never  forget. 

And  the  two  up  in  Heaven,  are  they  lost  to  our  sight? 

Nay,  nay,  on  with  the  frolic,  they’re  with  us  to-night. 

And  O,  ho!  How  we  laugh  in  our  joy  till  we  cry 
At  the  pranks  of  these  girls — their  old  mother  and  I, 

And  the  grand-children  open-mouthed  funnily  stare 
At  the  tricks  of  these  boys  with  their  silvery  hair. 

The  grand-children?  No,  no,  they  are  myths,  and  I say: 
Shut  the  door  in  their  faces  and  bid  them  away ; 

For  at  our  merry  feasting  we’ll  have  not  a gnome 
To  o’ershadow  our  hearts  when  the  children  are  home. 

If  these  boys  are  not  wrestling!  Well,  I declare! 

Here!  Keep  out  of  the  way;  you’ll  get  hit  with  a chair. 
There!  I told  you;  The  baby  has  bumped  her  dear  head; 
Do  run  quickly,  O mother!  for  sugar  and  bread. 

Ah!  I wonder  if  kisses  won’t  answer  as  well 
As  in  babyhood  sorrows, — who  is  there  can  tell  ? 

And  now,  mother,  this  wild  crew  is  turning  our  heads; 
Don’t  you  think  it  is  time  they  were  sent  to  their  beds? 

So  bring  hither  my  Bible,  and  kneel  ’round  my  side, 

Keep  the  children,  oh  Father!  whatever  betide. 

And  watch  over  their  footsteps  when  we  shall  be  gone. 
And  O,  guide  them  safe  home  at  the  Heavenly  dawn; 

And  when  mother  and  I through  thy  shining  streets  roam 
Help  us  patiently  wait  till  the  children  are  Home. 


i8 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


STEPHEN  AND  RACHAEL. 

From  Dickens’  Hard  Times. 

O hearts  that  live  so  near,  and  yet, 

So  far  apart.  That  thrill  in  vain. 

And  throb,  and  beat,  and  sigh,  and  fret. 
With  love’s  delicious,  hopeless  pain. 

O lips  that  simple  words  express. 

And  yet  with  tenderness  o’erHow; 

That  never  meet  in  love’s  caress. 

But  smile  and  sigh  that  it  is  so. 

Fond  eyes  that  mark  each  cheek  tear- worn; 
But  dare  not  glance  where  love-light  hides 

Beyond  the  mask,  lest  each  should  mourn 
In  pain  the  path  where  duty  bides. 

O hands  that  toil,  but  only  clasp 
In  symjDathy  and  tenderness; 

Whose  toil  seems  sweeter  for  the  grasp 
Of  that  expressive,  silent  press. 

O weary  ones,  who,  mid  life’s  throngs 
Must  walk  alone,  and  restless  beat 

The  lonely  path,  while  each  one  longs 
For  echoes  of  the  other’s  feet. 

Afar,  anear,  beyond  regret. 

With  hopeless,  painless  hearts  of  woe; 

In  smiles  and  grieving  tears,  and  yet 
Content,  that  God  hath  willed  it  so. 


HYMN  OF  THE  FISHER-WIVES. 


19 


HYMN  OF  THE  FISHER-WIVES. 

The  brave  fisher-wives  gaze  o’er  the 
Treacherous  bar, 

At  the  sails  of  the  ship  that  is 
Gliding  afar, 

And  the  waves  sing  a lullaby 
Sweet  in  their  rest. 

Like  a fond  mother  rocking  a 
Child  on  her  breast. 

But  from  anxious  hearts  floateth  the 
Hymn  like  a prayer, 

Giving  loved  ones  so  faithfully 
Unto  His  care. 

“Wilt  thou  watch  them,  O Father,  and 
With  them  abide; 

Through  the  day-light  and  darkness,  oh 
Pity  and  guide, 

For  their  barque  is  so  small  on  thy 
Ocean  so  wide.” 

On  the  shore  of  the  sea  the  lone 
Fisher-wives  stand. 

As  the  morning’s  grey  light  greets  the 
Storm-beaten  strand. 

And  the  sleepless  eyes  gaze  o’er  the 
Murmuring  main, 

For  a glimpse  of  the  sails  they  have 
Watched  for  in  vain. 


20 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


And  the  moaning  rocks  echo  the 
Sad  plaintive  song, 

From  the  bowed,  aching  hearts  of  the 
Grief  stricken  throng: 

“Do  thou  watch  them  so  tenderly. 
Father,  nor  hide 

Thy  loved  face  from  their  gazing, 
Whate’er  betide. 

For  their  barque  is  so  small  on  thy 
Ocean  so  wide.” 

When  the  bright  evening  star  its  soft. 
Trembling  rays  fling 
O’er  the  rippling  sea,  then  the 
Calm  breezes  bring 
To  the  hearts  of  the  fisher-wives 
Glad,  as  they  gaze,  * 

The  faint  notes  of  a song  like  a 
Nun’s  chant  of  praise. 

And  in  answer  far  over  the 
Waves  in  the  gloam. 

Floats  the  wives’  hymn  of  greeting 
The  fisher-men  home: 

“We  do  thank  thee,  O Father,  for 
Safe  winds  and  tide. 

Through  deep  perils  and  storms  thou 
Didst  pityingly  guide. 

For  their  barque  was  so  small  on  thy 
Ocean  so  wide.” 


A MERRY  OLD  MAID. 


21 


A MERRY  OLD  MAID. 

O,  who  is  there  in  this  world  has  plenty  of  joy, 

With  no  trifles  to  trouble  and  naught  to  annoy, 

With  no  children  to  bother  her  hour  after  hour. 

And  no  pestering  husband  to  work  her  heart  sour? 

Who  skips  over  hard  places  and  glides  over  woes. 

With  sunshine  in  her  pathway  where  ever  she  goes; 
And  a smile  on  her  visage  that  seems  half  divine — 

Who  indeed,  but  this  merry  old  maiden  of  mine! 

She’s  a mint  of  her  own,  and  has  no  one  to  frown 
If  she  spends  half  a dime  when  she  goes  over  town. 

And  she  talks  about  poetry,  music  and  art. 

As  if  all  of  the  muses  dwelt  in  her  pure  heart. 

Oh,  she  does  as  she  pleases,  and  goes  where  she  will. 
And  she  envies  no  mortal  nor  wishes  one  ill. 

And  she  happily  walks  through  the  sunniest  glade. 

As  she  laughs  at  your  floutings,  my  merry  old  maid. 

And  along  the  steep  hillside  she  glides  o’er  life’s  track. 
With  no  one  to  her  apron-strings  pulling  her  back; 

And  she  stoops  to  the  fallen  where  ever  they  moan 
And  o’er  life’s  thorny  pathway  she  goes  not  alone; 

For  rich  blessings  go  with  her — the  brightest  and  best 
And  love  bides  by  the  wayside  where  e’er  she  may  rest. 
Who  has  joy  in  this  life-time  that  never  will  fade 
And  a crown  in  the  next,  but  my  merry  old  maid? 


22 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


MY  OLD  SWEETHEART. 


A lover  is  sitting  beside  me  to-day, 

Who  neither  is  handsome,  nor  youthful,  nor  gay; 

His  dear  hands  are  roughened  hy  labor  of  years, 

H is  brown  cheeks  are  furrowed  hy  cares  and  by  tears. 

His  proud  form  is  bent  hy  the  storms  and  the  strife 
That  comes  to  us  all  in  the  struggles  of  life — 

And  with  all  the  sorrows  that  compassed  his  way 
My  lover  looks  aged  and  weary  to-day. 

I’ve  sweethearts  far  younger  and  gayer  I know. 

And  smiles  of  rare  sweetness  on  me  they  bestow; 
They  bow  most  divinely,  they  flirt  and  they  jest — 
Their  hearts  are  hut  shams — merely  puff-balls  at  best. 

Their  heads  hold  but  flatt’ry  and  vainest  of  pride. 

My  old  love  is  fond,  and  is  true,  and  is  tried. 

And  though  they  could  bring  all  the  gold  o’er  the  sea. 
Death  only  could  part  my  old  lover  and  me. 

As  fondly  I linger  beside  his  arm  chair. 

Caressingly  stroking  his  silvery  hair, 

I earnestly  thank  the  kind  Giver  above, 

For  this  precious  blessing — my  dear  father’s  love. 


A PROBLEM. 


23 


A PROBLEM. 


I’ve  seen  such  lovely  angels 
With  curls  of  golden  hair! 

And  just  the  sweetest  dresses, 

And  faces,  O,  so  fair. 

With  little,  dainty  fingers. 

And  such  blue,  tender  eyes. 

And  wings  that  shone  like  dew-pearls. 
Just  dropped  from  out  the  skies. 

I’ve  seen  ’em  all  in  pictures. 

And  they  look  nice,  they  do; 

But  I’d  not  want  my  angels 

All  dressed  like  that,  would  you? 

There’s  grandpa,  I’d  not  know  him, 
For  he  is  rather  stout; 

It  they’d  put  dresses  on  him 
I know  I’d  laugh  right  out. 

And  grandma’s  hair  is  silver. 

Her  hands  look  worn  and  old. 

Her  eyes  are  hazel  and  she 

Wears  specs  with  rims  of  gold. 

The  curls,  and  wfings,  and  dresses. 
Would  do  for  girls  like  me. 

But  Joe  and  Frank,  how  they’d  look — 
And  papa — don’t  you  see  ? 


24 


LKISURE  HOUR  POEMS, 


I don’t  believe  all  angels 
Are  like  the  pictures — fair, 

For  grandpa  can’t  look  like  them, 

Nor  grandma — when  they’re  There. 
And  when  I get  to  Heaven, 

If  they’re  all  dressed  up  so, 

How  ’ll  I know  them  from  others? 
That’s  what  I’d  like  to  know. 


THE  MANIAC. 

O maniac  dread,  with  thy  cold,  piercing  eyes. 

That  glare  through  the  rude  dungeon  bars. 

Thy  savage  song  howling  in  hideous  glee 
To  smilingly  pitiless  stars; 

Thy  glittering  teeth  gnash  at  the  moonbeams  so  white. 
While  tearing  thy  long  locks  of  gvey, 

Thou  seem’st  like  a beast  in  its  jungle  lair. 

By  mortal  and  devil  at  bay; 

Thy  laugh ’s  like  the  howl  of  a demon  in  joy^. 

Thy  rage  like  the  furious  waves 
That  break  on  the  crags  with  their  frenzied  might — 
Thy  moan ’s  like  a beaten  slave’s. 

Think’st  thou  that  I pity  thee?  No!  For  God 
Hath  pitied  thy  lot,  and  He 
Hath  drawn  o’er  thy  fancy  a deep  cloud  of  peace, 

O madman,  how  I envy  thee. 


WATCHING. 


At  visions  that  pass  like  the  wind,  thon  dost  grasp 
And  whisper  thy  murderous  will; 

And  grapple  with  foes  of  thy  passionate  brain, 

Whose  mad  schemings  never- are  still. 

But  I,  in  my  prison  with  sunshine  around. 

That  mocketh  my  heart  in  its  tomb. 

Am  wrestling  with  foes  of  a terrible  will 
Alone  in  my  soul’s  wretched  gloom. 

Aye,  maniac  fierce,  in  thy  prison  drear, 

I envy  thee,  yea,  envy  thee. 

For  thou  hast  no  reason  of  heart  or  of  mind. 

And  nothing  of  reality; 

Hast  naught  but  the  dark  phantoms  fleeting  and  wild. 
To  trouble  thy  over-wrought  brain; 

With  no  thought  of  life  or  eternity. 

And  nothing  of  joy  or  of  pain. 

Let  those  who  may  pity  thy  lot,  yea,  and  grieve, 

A peaceful  soul  resting  is  thine! 

And  mortals  might  call  it  a wild,  frenzied  wish. 

To  change  thy  dread  prison  for  mine! 


WATCHING. 

In  the  morning  I stand 
On  the  glimmering  strand. 

That  is  washed  by  the  waves  as  they  roam. 
And  I bend  low  mine  ear. 

Mid  the  music  to  hear 
If  the  voices  are  calling  me  home. 


3 


6 


LEISUKK  HOUR  1‘OKMS. 


But  I hear  not  a song 
or  the  glorified  throng, 

As  I walk  by  the  murmuring  sea, 

Yet  I know  they  doth  wait, 

And  will  watch  till  the  gate 
Of  the  beautiful  opens  for  me. 

At  the  calm  of  noonday 
On  the  shore  yet  I stray. 

O’er  the  rippling  sea  still  I gaze. 

Where  the  white  clouds  at  rest, 

Seemeth  forms  of  the  blest. 

That  are  clothed  in  the  Heaven-bright  rays. 

But  I see  not  a trace 
Of  one  dear,  smiling  face. 

As  I walk  by  the  murmuring  sea. 

Yet  I know  they  doth  wait. 

And  will  watch  till  the  gate 
Of  the  beautiful  opens  for  me. 

When  has  fiided  the  dn}-, 

And  the  moon’s  crystal  ray 
Builds  a bridge  of  bright  beams  to  the  shore, 

O O 7 

By  the  path  of  pure  light 
Do  I watch  through  the  night, 

For  the  ones  who  will  beckon  me  o’er. 

But  I sec  not  a hand 
From  that  mystical  land. 

As  I walk  by  the  murmuring  sea. 

Yet  I know  they  doth  wait. 

And  will  watch  till  the  gate 
Of  the  beautiful  opens  for  me. 


LITTLE  WE  KNOW. 


2 


LITTLE  WE  KNOW. 


Little  we  know  of  the  hearts  that  weep, 

When  smiles  beam  e’en  the  brightest, 

Little  we  know  of  the  storms  o’er  head 

When  sunbeams  dance  the  lightest. 

Little  we  know  by  the  calm,  clear  stream. 
Of  cruel  rocks  before  us. 

Little  we  know  by  our  life’s  fair  dream. 
What  sorrows  may  come  o’er  us. 

Little  we  know  how  a thoughtless  word. 
May  hearts  most  deeply  sorrow. 

Little  we  know  by  our  loss  to-day, 

What  we  may  gain  to-morrow. 

Little  we  know  by  the  clasping  hand, 

How  much  of  friendship’s  in  it. 

Little  we  know  when  the  goal  we  set, 

The  strife  it  takes  to  win  it. 

Little  we  know  by  a tiny  stone. 

What  riches  it  may  measure; 

Little  we  know  how  our  clinging  trust 
May  prove  a priceless  treasure; 

Little  we  know  when  onr  hearts  are  light, 
Of  burdens  that  will  freight  us; 

Little  we  know  by  the  grief  we  bear, 

The  joys  that  may  await  us. 


LKISI'KK  IIOL'K  I’OK.MS. 


A J^ATTLE  SCENE. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Potomac, 

Whose  dark  waters  softly  How, 
I.aii^hin*^  as  the  roses  whisper 
To  the  lilies  far  below; 

Where  the  willows  <jently  swayinj^ 
Like  a sad  nun,  moan  and  weep. 

And  the  wind  sighs  through  the  forest 
Like  a troubled  child  asleep; 

WMicre  the  crimson  in  the  river 
Stained  the  lilies’  white  array. 

While  the  blood  upon  her  bosom 
Told  of  battles  through  the  day, 

.Vnd  the  stars  shone  out  at  evening 
Sadly  weeping  tears  of  dew. 

Here  were  weary  armies  resting. 

One  the  Grey,  the  other  Blue. 

In  the  tender  shades  of  twilight. 
Through  the  silent,  dreamy  air. 

Softly  rose  a bugle  challenge 
From  the  armies  resting  there. 

And  o’er  hill  and  through  the  meadow. 
Proudly  free  the  notes  were  rung. 

And  the  words  of  “Hail  Columbia,” 

By  the  valiant  Blue  were  sung. 

Then  as  closed  the  echoing  chorus. 
Came  an  answer  far  away: 

“^Maryland,”  with  cheers  and  shouting. 
From  the  army  of  the  Grey. 


A BATTLE  SCENE. 


•^9 


“Stars  and  Stripes,”  the  northern  soldiers 
Sung  with  ferver  bold  and  true, 

While  in  answer  o’er  the  river. 

Pealed  the  “Flag  of  Bonnie  Blue.” 

Back  and  forth  the  armies  playing. 

Each  their  own  proud  rallying  songs. 
Each  in  fervency  of  spirit, 

Each  in  memory  of  their  wrongs. 

Ah,  but  soon  far  over  hill  top, 

Echoed  strains  so  grand  and  sweet. 
Fondly  played  by  skillful  fingers, 

While  each  heart  responsive  beat; 

And  the  wind  caught  up  the  music 
As  it  glided  through  the  air. 

Till  it  floated  up  to  Heaven 
Like  a mother’s  pleading  prayer. 


Many  a soldier  faint  and  weary. 
Lying  in  his  crimson  gore, 

Drank  the  music  of  the  chorus 
As  it  rang  along  the  shore; 

O’er  the  battle  field  it  lingered 
Where  the  dead  and  dying  lay, 
From  the  hearts  of  resting  armies. 
Sweeping  all  the  feud  away. 

Ne’er  a thought  that  on  the  morrow 
Fresh  would  flow  the  bloody  tide. 
And  a brother  fall  with  brother. 
Blue  and  Grey  rest  side  by  side; 


I.KISUkK  HOUR  I*OKMS. 


All  the  holiest  passions  wakened 
And  tog^ether  flowed  their  tears 
While  the  North  and  South  were  playing 
That  sweet  song,  time  but  endears. 
Precious  choral!  there  were  thousands 
Thy  dear  music  heard  no  more, 

For  some  heroes  there  are  sleeping 
On  the  river’s  silent  shore. 

When  in  camp  the  boys  are  gathered 
At  the  roll  of  martial  drum. 

Greeting  at  that  Grand  Reunion, 

Weary  comrades  as  they  come. 

Peal,  ye  buglers,  till  ye  waken 
Echoes  in  each  arch  and  dome, 

And  each  heart  will  beat  responsive 
In  that  Heavenly-Home  Sweet  Home. 


RICHES. 

In  the  twilight  they  sat,  honest  John  and  his  wife, 

He  complaining  of  poverty,  struggles  and  strife; 

“We  are  poor,  yes,”  he  murmured,  “as  poor  as  a crow; 
For  our  labor  and  fretting  we’ve  nothing  to  show. 

Here  we  live  in  a home  that  is  lowly  at  best. 

While  the  boys  must  be  fed  and  the  girls  must  be  dressed 
We  are  up  with  the  sun  and  we  labor  till  night; 

And  our  lives  slip  away  and  our  locks  fade  to  white; 
When  the  comforts  of  living  for  which  here  we  slave 
Shall  be  ours,  we  will  stand  on  the  brink  of  the  grave.” 


RICHES. 


V 

And  he  sighed.  Discontent  was  upon  his  plain  phiz; 

On  her  brow  was  a shadow  reflected  from  his. 

Then  a silence  fell  on  them,  a silence  as  deep 
As  when  shadows  of  midnight  enshroud  us  in  sleep. 

Through  the  door  came  an  Imp,  and  his  form  seemed  a cloud, 
As  beneath  the  vast  weight  of  a burden  he  bowed. 

He  was  ugly  and  grey,  his  eyes  sunl^n  and  dim; 

He  was  old  and  decrepit,  his  visage  was  grim; 

And  he  said,  as  the  burden  he  dropped  with  a ring: 

“So  you  crave  but  the  comforts  that  money  can  bring?” 

“Let  me  purchase  your  troubles,  your  woes,  and  your  care. 
And  the  wealth  of  the  world  shall  yet  fall  to  your  share; 

For  your  years  and  the  health  that  seems  rosy  and  sure 
I will  give  you  a fortune.  I’m  woefully  poor; 

And  your  cares — for  the  boys  and  girls  you  must  feed, 

Here  is  gold,  all  you  wish,  and  it  satisfies  greed; 

And  how  much  will  you  take  for  the  honor  bright  name 
That  your  children  will  share  with  no  blushes  of  shame? 

For  the  love  of  the  wife  at  your  hearth  I will  give 
All  the  gold  you  may  covet  as  long  as  you  live.” 

“Like  a king’s  on  his  throne  shall  your  luxuries  be. 

For  my  jewels  and  treasures  are  countless.  Ah,  see!” 

And  he  flung  out  a shower  of  diamonds  that  glared 
In  such  splendor,  John  opened  his  eyes,  and  he  stared 
At  the  light  that  his  wife  had  just  struck  in  amaze; 

Then  he  started,  and  said:  “To  kind  Heaven  the  praise 

That  ’tis  only  a dream,  and  I find — Ah  how  well! — 

That  my  troubles  and  cares  are  too  precious  to  sell, 

With  my  boys  and  my  girls,  and  a wife  that  is  true, 

I am  richer,  my  darling,  yea  far,  than  I knew.” 


.3^ 


LKlSrUK  HOUR  POKMS, 


So  in  all  of  our  lives  at  some  things  we  repine, 

And  we  dolefully  sigh  for  a much  sweeter  wine; 

Vet  ofc  times  when  ’tis  sweetened  we  find  to  our  cost 
That  the  Havor  most  loved  we  forever  have  lost. 

And  if  all  of  our  joys  and  our  burdens  were  told, 

And  a price  put  upon  them  in  diamonds  and  gold, 

Ah ! how  loth  would  we  sell  but  a single  caress. 

Or  a fond  smile  of  welcome,  or  tender  hand-press; 

And  how  soon  would  we  find,  ’mid  our  troubles  and  woe. 
We  arc  happier,  richer,  far,  far,  than  we  know. 


DAISY-CHAINS. 

Down  in  the  meadow,  half  asleep. 

Where  breezes  through  the  grasses  sweep. 
An  idle  youth  in  quiet  lay, 

W^hile  at  his  side  a blue-eyed  fay 
Sat  weaving  with  such  artful  care, 

A dainty  chain  of  daisies  fair. 

His  eyes  were  closed  in  rare  content. 

Her  thoughts  alone  on  mischief  bent. 

She  wound  the  chain  about  his  head. 

And  arms,  and  form,  and  o’er  him  spread, 
’Till  he  seemed  but  a daisy  bed. 

The  laughing  eyes  then  open  flew. 

And  peered  into  the  eyes  of  blue; 

Up  rose  his  hands,  and  with  a bound. 


MY  SOXG. 


33 


The  chain  lay  broken  on  the  ground. 

The  blue  eyes  flashed  with  sudden  light; 
And  flinging  him  the  daisies  white, 

The  vengeance  in  her  eyes  he  read, 

As  haughtily  the  midget  said : 

“Young  man,  another  time  I’ll  make 
A stouter  chain  you  cannot  break.” 

The  little  witch!  Could  it  be  true. 

How  well  she  spoke  her  dear  heart  knew? 
For  sure  enough,  around  his  heart 
She  wove  a chain  he  could  not  part. 

And  if  this  very  day  you  pass 
Across  the  meadow’s  waving  grass. 

You’ll  see  the  children  of  the  twain, 
A-weaving  each  a daisy-chain. 


MY  SONG. 

I thought  to  write  in  my  fair  life, 

A song  so  glad  and  clear, 

That  those  who  listened  ’mid  the  strife 
Would  linger  long  to  hear. 

The  words  were  pure,  the  music  sweet. 
Seemed  like  a childhood  dream, 

. The  measures  glided  like  the  feet 
Of  fairies,  or  like  streams 


34 


I.KISliKK  HOUR  I'OKMS. 


Of  joyfiilness.  No  chords  nor  words 
E’er  swept  my  heart  with  pain; 

It  seemed  that  e’en  the  joyful  birds 
Caught  up  the  glad  refrain. 

My  life  was  filled  with  happy  rhyme, 
And  all  the  bright  day  through 

My  grateful  heart  kept  merry  time, 

The  song  more  perfect  grew; 

And  then  in  joy  aloud  I sang, 

That  all  the  world  might  hear 

The  gladsome  air  that  softly  rang, 

F ree  from  defect  or  fear. 

But  they  passed  on — the  busy  throng. 
Nor  saw  the  singer  there, 

Nor  heard  one  note  of  all  my  song — 
My  song  that  knew  no  care. 

Ah,  then  I wept  such  bitter  tears. 

For  what  I thought  so  grand, 

And  pure  and  fair  in  my  glad  years, 
They  could  not  understand. 

And  yet,  there  may  be  songs  as  sweet — 
As  pure,  and  free  from  woe — 

Sung  every  day  by  hearts  I meet 
And  I not  hear  nor  know. 


WHEN  I AM  GROWING  OLD. 


WHEN  I AM  GROWING  OLD. 


0 will  the  flowers  seem  as  fair  • 

As  they  seem  to  me  now, 

And  sorrow’s  clouds  as  quickly  turn 
To  sunshine  on  my  brow? 

Will  pleasures  bright  leave  on  my  life 
Their  purest  drops  of  gold, 

Think  you,  when  years  are  fading  fast — 
When  I am  growing  old? 

And  will  the  birds  sing  sweetly  then, 

And  chirp  the  whole  day  long; 

And  will  my  heart  in  unison 
Still  echo  every  song? 

1 cannot  think.  It  seems  so  long. 

Till  years  their  mantles  fold 

About  my  form,  about  my  life — 

When  I am  growing  old. 

Yet  there  are  some  whose  eyes  are  bright. 
Though  locks  are  silver  grey — 

Whose  hearts  seem  young  and  just  as  light 
As  does  my  own  to-day. 

Oh,  if  my  life  will  aye  be  young. 

My  heart  but  keep  its  gold. 

I’ll  sit  and  laugh  when  frosts  of  time 
Shall  find  me  growing  old. 


36 


LKISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


A BIRD  SONG. 

()  robin,  how  naughty  you  acted 

Out  there  hy  the  front  garden  gale,  . 

When  Jamie  was  telling  a story 

Last  night — yes,  I know  it  was  late; 

But  robin,  now  how  could  I leave  him 
There  standing  alone  in  the  night. 

With  such  a nice  story  half  finished 

I’m  sure  now  it  wouldn’t  have  l)een  right. 

And,  robin,  ’twas  such  a nice  story, 

I’m  sure  that  you  thought  it  so  too, 

I don’t  think  it  wrong  that  I listened 
Say,  robin,  now  tell  me,  do  you? 

Yes  robin,  I think  you  were  naughty 
To  listen  to  all  that  we  said, 

Then  raise  such  a breeze  in  the  moonlight. 
And  fill  our  gay  hearts  with  such  dread. 

You  scolded  about  all  the  nonsense 
That  your  tender  fledglings  did  see. 

And  threatened  to  tell  to  my  mother 
The  story  that  Jamie  told  me. 

But  robin,  ’twas  such  a nice  story, 

I’m  sure  that  you  thought  it  so  too. 

I don’t  think  it  wrong  that  I listened. 

Say  robin,  now  tell  me,  do  you? 


THE  CANCELED  NAMES. 


37 


I3ut  robin,  this  morn  you  are  merry, 
And  seem  in  a penitent  mood, 

For  eavesdropping  surely  was  naughty, 
Xow  robin,  dear,  won’t  you  be  good? 
I’ll  promise,  if  you’ll  not  tell  mother. 

I’ll  ne’er  again  make  you  so  late. 

For  Jamie  would  just  as  soon  meet  me 
I know,  at  the  back  garden  gate. 

0 robin,  ’twas  such  a nice  story, 

I’m  sure  that  you  thought  it  so  too. 

1 don’t  think  it  wrong  that  I listened. 
Say  robin,  now  tell  me,  do  you? 


THE  CANCELED  NAMES. 

The  garret  lone  and  musty, 

I visited  one  day. 

And  gazed  on  things  forgotten 
That  in  the  shadows  lay. 

Where  gliding  years  their  fingers 
Had  silently  laid  down. 

On  things  that  once  were  precious, 
A pall  of  dusty  brown. 

From  oft'  the  shelf  of  oaken 
Against  the  grim  old  wall, 

I chose  a book  of  childhood 
Its  lessons  to  recall; 


38 


LEISURK  HOIK  POKMS. 


I ope’d  its  yellow  pages — 

Caught  on  the  fly-leaf  sere 
The  names  that  had  not  faded 
With  each  (juick  passing  year. 

I saw  a boyish  penman, 

llis  name  beneath  mine  trace, 
And  read  by  canceled  letters 
The  future’s  hidden  face; 
While  children  slyly  nodding. 
Looked  o’er  the  desk  to  see 
If  fate  brought  joy  or  sorrow 
To  my  boy-love  and  me. 

Ah  me  ! The  years  are  scattered, 
I had  outlived  the  pain. 

Till  memory  sadly  lifted 
The  darkened  pall  again. 

I gaze  through  mists  of  teardrops 
Back  on  that  golden  scene, 
While  gloomy  restless  shadows 
Flit  o’er  a grave  between. 


PHOiBE. 

I hear  his  mournful  call  and  moan  — 
His  soul  is  always  sighing. 

His  song  is  ever  like  my  own — 

My  heart  breaks  at  his  cr^dng. 


PHCEBE. 


39 


“Phoebe!”  “Phoebe!”  “Phoebe!” 
Calls  he  sadly  all  the  day. 

Ne’er  another  note  has  he, 

O’er  and  o’er  so  tenderly, 

He  sings  his  mournful  lay; 
‘•Phffibe!”  “Phoebe!” 


He  watches  o’er  the  mound  where  she 
Like  a fair  bride  is  sleeping. 

He  watches  tenderly  with  me. 

While  our  hearts  break  with  weeping. 

“Phoebe!”  “Phoebe!”  “Phoebe!” 

Cries  his  anguished  soul  in  pain. 

While  the  woodland  fairies  sweet. 
Sobbing,  the  plaintive  call  repeat, 

And  my  heart  sighs  it  o’er  again, 
“Phoebe!”  “Pha'be!” 


. And  all  the  day  where  e’er  I walk 
He  softly  flits  beside  me. 

And  ne’er  do  I his  sorrow  mock. 

And  ne’er  doth  he  deride  me. 

. “Phoebe?”  “Phoebe!”  “Phoebe!” 
Mourns  his  heart  and  mine  for  aye; 
He  understands  my  grief  so  well — 
Little  comforter,  and  tells 
To  me  his  sorrow  day  by  day, 
“Phoebe?”  “Phoebe!” 


40 


I.KISL'RK  HOUR  I'OK-MS, 


TO  MV  SISTER  MINA. 

(^!  I used  to  look  on  a pale  youn<^  face 
As  it  lay  in  its  calm,  dreamless  rest, 

At  the  white  hands  peacefully  folded  there. 

On  the  bosom  like  lily  l)uds  pressed; 

And  in  sorrow  weep,  that  the  book  was  closed 
To  the  eyes  of  the  bri<^ht  world  below; 

For  it  seemed  so  fair  to  my  dreaminj^  j^ii/e, 

W ith  no  shadows  of  anguish  or  woe. 

And  I mourned,  dear  one,  as  your  cothn  closed. 
For  so  youthful  and  fair  was  your  life; 

And  I sighed  that  death  had  passed  by  the  aged 
W ho  were  bowed  wdth  the  burdens  of  strife — 

Who  had  waited  long,  and  had  listened  oft 
For  the  dip  of  the  shadow'y  oar, — 

And  had  borne  the  years  of  your  joyous  life 
To  that  echoless  land  evermore. 

Hut  to-day  I gaze  on  a dead  young  face. 

And  I think  it  a beautiful  sight; 

He  is  kind,  I know,  to  have  closed  the  book 
WMiile  the  pages  were  pure  and  white; 

Ere  the  heart  was  aged,  and  ill  with  grief. 

And  had  lost  its  pure  faith  and  its  trust. 

For  the  years  can  bring  to  an  untried  heart. 

Aye,  far  worse  than  the  sleep  of  the  just. 


BLUSH  ROSES. 


41 


BLUSH  ROSES. 

Down  the  garden  path  a maiden 
Walked  at  close  of  day, 

While  the  silver  veil  of  twilight 
Gathered  round  her  way. 

As  from  rose  to  rose  she  flitted, 
Kissing  here  and  yon. 

Drops  of  honey-dew  that  glistened 
On  the  flowerets  wan. 

Came  a lover  down  the  pathway. 
Unobserved  and  sly. 

Till  he  stooped  above  the  maiden. 
Now  so  wondrous  shy; 

“ Stealing  honey-dew  and  kisses, 

I must  have  some  too;” 

And  he  bent  and  kissed  the  rosebuds, 
’Neath  the  eyes  of  blue. 

And  they  say  the  smiling  roses 
Caught  the  blushes  red. 

As  the  lassie,  in  confusion. 

Bent  her  dainty  head. 

And  next  day  the  sunbeams  wondered 
How  the  roses  light. 

Had  turned  red  as  crimson  blushes 
In  one  single  night. 


4 


42 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


THE  MAID  AND  THE  SEA. 

“O  angry  waves,  quiet  down  your  wrath, 

Blow  softest  breeze  o’er  my  true  love’s  path, 

And  cruel  rocks,  hide  ye  low  your  heads. 

In  ocean’s  fathomless  cavern  beds;  ' 

O storms,  grow  calm  on  the  troubled  sea. 

And  bring  my  fond  lover  home  to  me.” 

“O  dashing  tides,  all  your  madness  hush. 

No  loving  heart  let  your  fury  crush; 

Shine  down,  oh  moon,  with  your  softest  ray. 

Beam  out,  bright  stars,  and  watch  o’er  his  way. 
Hush,  hush  thy  billows  of  wrath,  oh  sea. 

And  bring  my  love  safely  home  to  me.” 

The  moon  rose  calm  and  the  stars  shone  bri  ght, 

The  winds  went  down  and  the  waves  grew  light; 
The  storm  swept  on,  and  the  rocks  sang  low. 

But  ah,  she  knelt  in  the  wildest  woe. 

And  kissed  the  dead,  which  the  tides  brought  home. 
To  her  fond  arms  in  the  morning  gloom. 


AT  CONFESSION. 

It  is  calm  even-tide. 

A priest  sits  in  confessional 
With  brow  of  peace,  but  eyes  that  tell 
From  their  dark  depths,  where  sorrow  sleeps. 
And  on  his  sad,  fair  face, 


AT  CONFESSION. 


43 


The  deep  imprint  of  pain 
Has  left  a saintly  grace. 

Around  the  Virgin  mother  pure, 

Whose  loving  arms  enfold 
The  smiling  Babe  so  tenderly, 

The  lamps  of  gold 

Throw  sacred  rays  like  beams 

From  heaven.  With  lightened  heart  and  praise. 

The  last  forgiven  penitent 

Has  closed  the  doors.  A calm  of  peace. 

Like  God’s  own  smile 
Is  hovering  over  all. 

The  wide  door  swings  again. 

And  enters  there  a form 
Enrobed  in  deepest  pall. 

That  bows  above  the  holy  stoup 
And  in  devotion  signs  the  cross 
W’^ith  trembling  hand  upon  her  heart; 

Then  gathering  close  the  somber  veil 
That  folds  her  like  the  martial  cloak 
Of  woe,  she  comes  adown  the  aisle 
The  crucifix  oft  pressing  to 
Her  pallid  lips.  She  counts 
Her  beads  with  sobbing  breath. 

That  wakens  moans  in  arch  and  nave 
As  deep  as  those  in  courts  of  Death. 

By  the  confessional 
She  lowly  kneels,  as  by  the  grave 
Of  some  lost  love,  and  bursts  in  tears 
Of  bitter  agony. 


44 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


“And  is  my  daughter’s  sin  so  deep?” 
Compassionately  asked 
The  sad-eyed  priest.  “ Be  calmer,  child, 
Confession  bringeth  peace.”  She  ceased 
Her  sobbing,  and  in  tones  so  clear, 

And  passionate,  and  sad, 

Made  answer:  “ Father,  yea. 

My  sin  is  deep.  My  strife 
Is  that  I never  can  forget 
The  old,  glad  life. 

Despite  of  prayers  it  clings 
To  heart  and  mind.  O,  can  it  be, 

My  soul  is  lost  eternally?” 

How  starts  the  priest.  His  face  is  pale. 

With  eyes  aflame  he  seeks  to  trace 
Her  features,  but  in  vain.  The  dark 
Veil  hides  from  him  her  tear- wet  face. 

Like  some  black  cloud  in  night-mare  dreams. 

“Before  I left  the  world,  I loved. 

But  O,  they  parted  us,  and  then 
My  Bernard  was  untrue,  they  said. 

Another,  fairer  he  had  wed. 

Above  my  parents’  graves  I wept. 

And  vainly  prayed  for  death. 

My  kindred  urged  me  seek  relief 
In  convent  walls,  where  dwelt  no  thoughts 
But  purity  and  sacred  peace. 

For  deeds  of  holiness,  I gave 

To  them  my  wealth,  and  pledged  my  vow 

To  live  a bride  of  Heaven,  and  oh! 


AT  CONFESSION. 


45 


My  flesh  is  scourged  with  penance  so, 
Still  heart  will  cling  to  memories  fond. 
At  prayer  or  chant,  or  in  my  sleep, 

At  morning  fair,  at  rosary. 

Or  in  repentance  deep. 

At  vesper  hour,  in  holy  place. 

Or  ’mid  the  suffering  ones  of  woe, 

I ne’er  forget  him  whom  I loved — 
Those  years  of  bliss  so  long  ago. 

That  seem  like  Heaven.  O,  can  it  be. 

This  sinful  blasphemy 

Is  past  all  pardon?  Father,  blest, 

Say,  is  there  naught  of  sacrifice. 

No  penance  dire,  no  word  of  charm. 

To  still  the  thoughts  of  deep  distress  ; 
No  balm  for  memories  pitiless?” 

How  ashen  pale  the  priest.  He  stares 
In  dream-like  madness  on 
The  form  he  longs,  yet  dares 
Not  clasp.  At  last  he  starts  and  tears 
His  set  and  bloodless  lips  apart. 

And  one  fond,  lingering  word 
Of  joy  and  agony  is  heard. 

“Louise!”  The  startled  nun  upsprings. 
With  trembling  hand  aside  she  flings. 
With  staring  eyes,  the  heavy  folds 
Of  her  dark  veil,  and  holds 
It  like  a carven  image  fair. 

Revealing  there 
A face  as  pure  and  beautiful 


LKISURK  HOUR  I*OF,MS. 


As  angels  are,  but  ah,  so  sad. 

And  worn,  and  wan  with  suflering. 
“Louise!  my  God!  they  told  me  you 
Were  dead!”  And  strange  the  scene, 

The  Virgin  pure  smiles  down  upon 
Beneath  the  tender  vesper  sheen 
The  walls  shut  in,  of  priest  and  nun 
Enfolded  in  each  other’s  arms. 

And  walls  throw  back  the  chiming  sound. 
While  arches  grand  the  name  prolong 
Of  “ Bernard,  Bernard,”  and  repeat 
The  lingering  cry, 

Until  the  whispers  die 
Away,  a sobbing  song. 


HER  STORY. 

Go,  hide  them  away  in  their  casket, 

?^Iy  eyes  fill  with  tears  at  the  sight. 

For  memories  sad  they  bring  to  me, 

' I care  not  to  see  them  to- night. 

They’re  only  some  time  tinted  letters, 

A ring,  and  a lock  of  brown  hair, 

A true-lover’s  knot,  and  some  tokens 
So  simple,  I wonder  you  care 
To  look  o’er  them,  e’en  as  a jDastime. 

The  gay  world  would  smile  could  they  see 
The  pages  so  blotted  with  tear  drops. 

But  ah,  they  are  priceless  to  me. 


HER  STORY. 


So  long  ago  penned,  that  the  sad  years 
Would  seem  like  a life-time  to  you. 

But  he  who  erst  penned  them  was  fearless 
And  loyal,  and  loving,  and  true. 

He  used  to  caress  my  dark  tresses — 

See  how  they  are  threaded  with  grey — 
And  praise  my  fair  cheeks  for  their  blossoms, 
As  Robert  praised  yours  yesterday. 

“And  where  is  the  writer?”  you  ask  me: 

Dead!  dead  in  a far-away  land. 

And  only  a memory  is  left  me. 

With  tokens  you  hold  in  your  hand. 

He  whispered  so  low  as  we  parted: 

“ I’ll  think,  love,  wherever  I roam, 

When  I sink  to  rest  in  the  evening 
Of  you,  dear  one,  waiting  at  home.” 

He  smiled  in  his  pride  as  he  kissed  me. 

And  hummed  the  gay  notes  of  a song. 
With  never  a thought  that  the  waiting 
Might  be,  ah,  so  weary  and  long. 

He  fell  in  the  battle  at  evening — 

They  wrote,  when  his  life-lamp  grew  dim. 
He  mourned  for  the  “ little  girl  ” praying. 
And  waiting,  and  hoping  for  him. 

Ah,  me!  and  the  waiting  is  weary, 

Go  put  them  back  out  of  my  sight, 

And  do  you  yet  wonder  I sorrow 

That  careless  hands  brought  them  to  light? 


48 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  HILL. 

The  journey  is  long,  and  the  hillside  is  steep, 

The  pathway  with  brambles  o’ergrown; 

We  pause  mid  the  footfalls  to  wonder  and  weep. 

O’er  many  a pitiless  stone. 

But  over  the  mountain  the  path  is  all  plain. 

While  down  in  the  valley  so  still, 

A rest  there  is  waiting  from  anguish  and  pain — 

A rest  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

The  way  up  the  hill  may  be  shadowed  with  woe, 
Joy’s  sun  may  have  set  in  the  sky, 

And  darkness  of  midnight  our  spirits  may  know; 

In  fear  we  my  bitterly  cry; 

But  over  the  mountain,  no  clouds  e’er  will  hide 
The  joys  that  our  visions  will  fill. 

Nor  shadow  the  rest  on  that  beautiful  side — 

The  rest  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

The  pathway  is  bright  down  the  steep  mountain  way, 
The  journey  is  short  and  is  swift; 

The  tender  light  shines  on  a pure,  perfect  day, 

Like  beams  through  a heavenly  rift; 

• The  fair,  golden  light  never  dies  in  the  west; 

The  calm  has  no  terror,  nor  chill, 

For  Heaven  smiles  down  on  the  beautiful  rest — 

The  rest  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 


THE  TWO  PAINTERS. 


49 


THE  TWO  PAINTERS. 

Ah  my  boy,  ere  your  feet 
Shall  cross  o’er  to  the  street 
Of  gay  manhood,  you  so  long  to  find. 

Let  me  tell  you  of  two 
Who  are  waiting  for  you. 

As  you  leave  your  fair  youth-time  behind. 

There  is  one  free  from  guile. 

Who  will  beckon  and  smile. 

And  will  paint  all  your  future,  my  boy, 
In  the  hue  of  pure  health — 

With  the  color  of  wealth. 

He  will  dip  his  brush  deep  in  true  joy. 

Like  the  bright  autumn  leaf. 
Through  frost-work,  through  grief. 
Will  the  days  bring  a tinting  of  gold; 

He  will  paint  your  name  bright. 

And  will  make  your  heart  light. 

And  contentment  a treasure  untold. 

Of  the  other  beware. 

Though  his  smile,  boy,  seems  fair. 
For  the  touch  of  his  brush  is  defame. 

And  the  hue  he  will  seek 
To  bepaint  your  fair  cheek. 

Will  be  deeper  than  blushes  of  shame. 


50 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


He  will  paint  all  your  life, 

With  sad  troubles  and  strife, 

And  deep  furrows  of  sorrow  will  trace; 
He  will  color  your  heart 
With  demoniac  art. 

In  the  crime-tints  you  ne’er  can  erase. 

So,  my  boy,  turn  away 
Though  his  visage  be  gay. 

It  hides  only  a demon’s  design; 

’Tis  the  tempter,  you  know. 

Who  brings  only  sad  woe. 

And  his  brush  is  dipped  deep  in  red  wine. 


THE  LEMONWEIR. 

Lemonwicr,  a river  in  Wisconsin,  is  said  to  mean  in  the  Indian  tongue,  “ river  of 
memory,”  and  tradition  rules  that  those  who  slept  upon  its  banks  were  enchanted 
with  dreams. 

O!  Lemon  weir,  thou  artless  stream 
Of  memory.  I lie  and  dream 
On  thy  green  banks,  the  hours  away. 

And  live  my  childhood’s  happy  day. 

I dream  it  through  without  a sigh; 

Its  joys  are  cloudless  as  the  sky 
Your  bosom  mirrors.  Music  rare 
I hear  around  me  in  the  air. 

On  willow  harps,  with  strings  of  gold. 

The  soft  winds  play  the  strains  of  old, 

And  lull  me  into  peacefulness. 


THE  LEMONWEIR. 


51 


And  naught  can  break  my  blissful  rest. 

Xo  cares  can  chafe,  no  ills  can  harm, 

Xor  dreams  of  love  dispel  your  charm. 

How  I forget  all  pain  and  woe 
In  watching  thy  Lethean  flow; 

And  once  again,  a merry  child, 

1 roam  the  dell  where  berries  wild 
Hang  ripe  for  me;  where  light  winds  press 
My  cheek  and  brow  in  soft  caress; 

Where  flowers  bloom  ’neath  smiling  skies. 
And  on  the  air  the  bird-trills  rise; 

And  leaves  dance  to  my  joyous  strain. 

And  rocks  each  note  throw  back  again, 
And  the  wide  world — its  joy  and  glee, 
Sunshine  and  song — were  made  for  me. 

The  wild  birds  love  thy  waters  pure. 

Its  crystal  depths  their  spirits  lure. 

As  if  they  too  from  life’s  distress 
Would  fainly  seek  forgetfulness; 

And  as  they  on  the  willows  swing. 
Enraptured,  they  forget  to  sing. 

The  minnows  glide  in  languor  deep. 

And  seem  enchanted  into  sleep; 

And  water  lilies  smile  in  dreams 
Of  Heaven,  while  the  golden  beams 
Of  sunlight  wrap  each  snowy  breast. 

And  their  lives  seem  a perfect  rest. 

01  that  I might  so  lie  for  aye. 

And  dream  eternity  away ! 


52 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


A SILHOUETTE. 

He  leaned  upon  the  mantle-piece, 

And  gazed  upon  the  face 

Which  beauty  rare  had  fondly  touched, 

And  left  a tender  grace. 

He  felt  that  far  above  his  life 
And  soul,  so  little  worth. 

She  lived  in  priceless  purity. 

As  Heaven  above  the  earth. 

Could  she  but  know  the  sins  that  weighed 
His  heart  like  leaden  things. 

She’d  shrink  from  ’neath  his  clasping  hand. 
As  from  a viper’s  stings. 

He  knew  the  secrets  he  must  own. 

Could  her  pure  heart  but  guess. 

She’d  rather  drink  the  poisoned  cup. 

Than  taste  his  lip’s  caress. 

From  one  dear  glimpse  of  Heaven  he  turned. 
And  on  his  sad  soul  fell 

The  pangs  of  anguish  and  despair. 

Deep  as  the  pains  of  hell. 

The  bitter,  bitter  tears  of  woe. 

That  fell  that  long,  dark  night. 

Upon  his  life-book  dropping  down. 

Left  one  page  pure  and  white. 


BABY  BINGERS. 


53 


BABY  FINGERS. 

Tiny  baby  fingers, 
Dimpled,  plump  and  fair; 

Tossing  mamma’s  tresses. 
Playing  mischief  there. 

Now  in  papa’s  pockets 
With  pretentions  meek. 

Then  among  his  whiskers 
Playing  hide  and  seek. 

Darling  baby  fingers. 
Pulling  grandpa’s  nose; 

Searching  in  such  earnest, 
Wand’ring  how  it  grows. 

Now  at  grandma’s  knitting. 
In  her  easy  chair; 

Busy  fingers  Into 
Mischief  every  where. 

Precious  baby  fingers. 
Folded  on  her  breast; 

Pure  as  robes  of  angels. 

In  her  last,  sweet  rest. 

Blessed  baby  fingers. 

In  His  kindness  given; 

Guiding  mortals  upward 
To  their  home  in  Heaven. 


54 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS, 


PERPLEXITY. 

I sit  in  my  chambcT  bewildered,  and  sigb, 

If  ever  a maiden  was  troubled,  it’s  I. 

I’ve  one  lover  rich,  tboiigb  lie’s  awfully  old. 

His  pockets  are  just  running  over  with  gold; 
Another  is  bandsome  and  loves  me,  I know, 

With  all  tbe  love  that  be  doesn’t  bestow 
On  bimself.  Tbe  other  is  poor,  plain  and  true. 

And  carries  a heart  that  is  pure  as  tbe  dew. 

But,  there  are  my  sisters.  Now  beautiful  Lou 
Has  married  a man  who  is  rich  as  a Jew; 

She  sighs  for  a husband  who’s  bandsome  and  gay. 
Whose  face  is  not  wrinkled,  whose  hair  is  not  grey. 
Kate  married  a beauty,  yet  she  has  no  joy. 

She’s  bead  of  tbe  bouse  and  he’s  more  like  a toy. 
And  don’t  know  as  much  as  a boy  out  of  school; 
Like  all  handsome  men,  he’s  a simpering  fool. 

Meg  wedded  for  love  and  she ’s  worst  of  ’em  all. 
For  in  a poor  cottage  that’s  terribly  small. 

She  lives  like  the  woman  who  lived  in  a shoe. 

And  grumbles  and  grumbles.  Now  what  can  I do? 
There’s  Lou  would  give  wealth  if  it  beauty  would 
bring; 

And  Kate,  who  has  beauty,  would  take  any  thing; 
And  she  who  has  love  is  the  worst  of  the  three. 
Love,  beauty  or  riches,  oh,  which  shall  it  be? 


SIX  YEARS,  BROTHER. 


55 


I say  to  my  sisters,  I’ll  be  an  old  maid, 

And  be  sure  of  sunshine,  since  they  have  the  shade, 
And  all  three  declare,  with  their  hands  held  on  high. 
Than  live  an  old  maid,  they  would  much  rather  die. 
Or  live  as  they  are — and  that’s  just  the  way; 

I go  to  my  mother,  she ’s  nothing  to  say. 

The  way  out  of  trouble  I ne’er  can  descry. 

If  ever  a maid  was  perplexed,  it  is  I. 


SIX  YEARS,  BROTHER. 


Six  years  we’ve  missed  thy  smile,  brother. 
And  long  the  years  do  seem 
Since  we  laid  thee  to  dreamless  sleep, 

To  sleep  that  seemed  a dream. 

Six  years  the  winter  snows,  brother. 

Have  draped  thy  bed  in  white; 

And  fairest  buds  have  bloomed  and  fell 
In  summer’s  golden  light. 

But  six  years  may  not  pass  again. 

For  us  their  clouds  to  view. 

Ere  we  may,  in  the  streets  of  gold, 

. Walk  hand  in  hand  with  you. 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


56 


ONE  DAY. 

Good-bye,  dear  day,  good-bye! 

And  let  me  wreathe  with  immortelles, 

Tlie  moments  sweet  that  fly 
On  golden  wings,  and  mark  with  white, 
The  hours  wherein  no  clouds  of  pain 
Have  dimmed  the  dear  sunlight. 

Farewell,  sweet  day,  farewell; 

E’en  now  the  evening  curfew  peals 
From  memories’  pealing  bell; 

I sit  and  count  them  as  they  fall. 

And  grieve  and  sigh,  yet  smile  that  they 
Are  ever  past  recall. 

Good-bye,  dear  day,  good-bye; 

Like  some  fond  ones  I’ve  loved  and  lost, 

That  in  death’s  clasp  do  lie. 

With  flowers  a-hloom  upon  the  brow — 
Each  tender  bloom  a precious  hour — 

Thou  seem’st  unto  me  now. 

Farewell,  sweet  day,  farewell. 

And  go  where  sleep  they  that  are  gone. 

For  after  all  ’tis  well; 

I would  not  call  back  one  dead  face, 

I would  not  live  thine  hours  again. 

Nor  e’en  thy  joys  retrace.  ^ 


TO-MORROW. 


- .S7 


TO-MORROW. 

Hopefully,  carefully,  how  we  have  planned, 
Eagerl}’  building  our  castles  on  sand; 

Watching  the  ships  that  are  leaving  our  shore. 
Heedlessly  thinking  of  days  gone  before, 

Living  in  hopes  of 
To-morrow. 

Measuring  the  work  that  we  sometime  must  do. 
Leaving  the  dear  old  friends,  longing  for  new, 
Counting  the  hours  that  so  profitless  fly. 
Waiting  for  comforts  to  come  bye-and-bye. 
Coming,  ]oerhaps,  with 
To-morrow. 

Dreaming  of  joys  that  may  come  with  the  light. 
Thinking  all  sorrow  to  pass  with  the  night. 
Cherishing  visions  of  bright  future  years — 
Visions  unshadowed  by  anguish  and  tears. 
Anxiously  waiting 
To-morrow. 

Yet  when  it  comes,  ah!  bitter  the  woe. 

Fairest  of  castles  are  lying  so  low — 

Counting  the  wrecks  are  we,  over  and  o’er. 
Stranded  and  broken  that  lie  on  our  shore. 
Wrecked  by  our  dreams  of 
To-morrow. 


5 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


Work  we  have  planned,  we  have  all  yet  to  do, 

Old  friends  have  left  us,  the  new  proved  untrue. 
Pleasure’s  bright  cup  that  we  counted  our  all. 
Changed  on  our  lips  to  the  bitterest  gall, 

O wretched  foot-fall. 

To-morrow. 

Bitter  the  page  of  our  criss-crossed  life, 

But  we  must  learn  all  its  sorrow  and  strife — 

Dreams  are  like  shadows  of  summer’s  bright  flowers. 
Now  is  our  all;  for  in  this  life  of  ours. 

There  is  but  one  glad 
To-morrow. 


LOVE’S  MATHEMATICS. 

O,  my  Clarence!  with  hair  like  the  morning, 

And  fond  orbs  of  hazel,  so  fine, 

And  dear  Jamie  with  locks  of  the  raven. 

And  black  eyes  that  sparkle  like  wine; 

And  sweet  Claud,  with  your  fair  golden  tresses 
And  orbs  like  the  June  skies  divine. 

How  your  glances  set  my  pulses  thrilling, 

Your  words  my  weak  heart  doth  repeat. 

And  your  tones  make  the  sunbeams  seem  brighter 
The  cadence  is  soft  and  so  sweet; 

And  the  touch  of  your  fingers  enchanting — 

My  heart  with  true  joy  is  replete. 


A HEART-LEAF. 


59 


You  all  sue  for  my  love,  Oh,  my  darlings  I 
You’re  dearer  than  all  else  to  me, 

I assure  you  sincerely.  To  reason 
It  stands  1 can  love  you  all,  three 
Times  as  fondly  and  truly  as  I 

Could  love  only  one,  don’t  you  seer 

I’ll  be  faithful  indeed,  oh,  my  treasures  I 
For  can’t  I be  just  thrice  as  true 
To  my  Claude,  and  my  Jamie,  and  Clarence, 

As  only  to  just  one  of  you? 

And  how  happy  it  makes  me  my  darlings, 

To  know  ’tis  not  vainh’  you  sue. 

What  is  that?  “I’m  a flirt!”  Oh,  my  poor  heart! 

That  I should  have  lavished  in  vain 
All  my  wealth  of  affection  upon  you 
To  reap  only  sorrow  and  pain. 

For  ye  will  not  observe  in  your  blindness, 

What  to  me  is  terribly  plain. 


A HEART-LEAF. 

Dear  leaf  that  I often  unfold, 

^Vhen  no  eye  but  His  own  can  see, 

And  happily  linger  with  heart  yet  aglow, 

Over  fond,  blissful  visions  that  no  one  can  know. 
But  my  loving  heart  and  thee. 


6o 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


Dear  leaf  that  1 tenderly  hide, 

Within  its  true  casket  of  gold, 

And  deep  in  the  tenderest,  sacredest  spot, 

Where  the  bright  roses  blossom,  and  death  shall  come 
How  lovingly  thee  I fold.  [not, 

Dear  leaf  that  I cherish  and  love. 

Not  one  shining  letter  of  light 
Shall  memory  lose  from  each  unclouded  page, 

Nor  shall  change  in  the  pitiless  frost-work  of  age, 

Nor  fade  in  its  desolate  night, 

The  long  years  may  silently  come. 

And  swiftly  may  hasten  away; 

When  death  shall  unfold  all  our  treasures,  dear  leaf. 

It  shall  find  you  untouched  by  life’s  frost  and  its  grief. 
As  you  are  this  beautiful  day. 


BROKEN  CHORDS. 

One  string  of  my  harp  is  broken. 

I’ve  strung  it  again  and  again. 

And  yet  though  the  others  their  music 
Enchanting,  they  ever  retain. 

The  harmony  never  is  perfect; 

A discord  e’er  falls  on  my  ear. 

I weep  that  the  old  songs  now  ever 
Are  lost,  once  so  tender  and  dear. 


WEARY. 


6r 


A string  of  my  heart  is  broken. 

How  oft  I have  welded  its  break; 

And  yet,  though  I touch  it  as  fondly, 

It  never  again  will  awake 
The  rapturous  thrills  in  my  spirit; 

The  joy  of  each  old  time  refrain 
Is  gone,  and  the  chord  with  its  sweetness 
Will  never  be  perfect  again; 

Until  the  grand  Master  of  music. 

His  magical  fingers  sweep  o’er 
The  strings  that  lie  broken  and  bleeding; 
Then  they  shall  be  perfect  once  more. 


WEARY. 

Weary  of  sunbeams,,  weary  of  rain. 

Weary  of  hoping  and  trusting  in  vain. 

Weary  of  longing  and  waiting; 

Weary  of  smiles  that  come  deep  from  the  heart, 
Weary  of  glances  that  cut  like  a dart. 

Weary  of  loving  and  hating. 

Weary  of  greeting  a dear,  friendly  grasp. 
Weary  of  sad  farewell’s  lingering  clasp. 

Weary  of  frowns  and  of  kisses; 

Weary  of  praises  as  cold  as  the  snow. 

Weary  of  bitings  from  lips  of  a foe. 

Weary  of  jeers  and  of  hisses. 


LEISURR  HOUR  POEMS. 


Weary  of  lioiirs  that  arc  full  of  delight, 
Weary  of  days  that  ai'e  darker  than  night, 
Weary  of  taking  and  giving; 

Weary  of  pleasures  that  end  but  in  clouds, 
Weary  of  hopes  that  lie  buried  in  shrouds. 
Weary,  so  weary  of  living. 


SONG  OF  THE  FARMER’S  WIFE. 

AFTER  HOOD. 

Step — Step — step ! 

* O’er  the  oaken  floor  so  bare. 

With  calico  gown  and  hands  of  brown. 
With  tangled  and  uncombed  hair; 

Doing  the  dishes  and  churning, 

When  the  morning  is  bright  and  cool. 
Washing  and  dressing  the  children. 

Till  the  first  bell  rings  for  school. 

T r a m p — t ra  m p — t ra  m jo ! 

The  hours  away  too  soon! 

Tramp!  till  the  bell  on  the  house  top. 

Is  calling  the  men  at  noon. 

Mending  the  children’s  garments. 

Till  the  little  feet  come  through  the  door. 
Darning  the  husband’s  stockings. 

Till  the  long  shadows  fall  on  the  floor. 


SOXG  OF  THE  FARMER’S  WIFE- 


63 


Washing  the  evening  dishes, 

Putting  the  children  to  bed; 

While  the  form  so  spare  with  toil  and  care, 

To  limbs  is  heavy  as  lead. 

And  weary  in  body  and  soul. 

With  sighs  in  her  troubled  breast. 

At  thoughts  of  the  toil  of  to-morrow, 

She  sinks  to  a prayerless  rest. 

O men,  with  sisters  and  wives! 

O men,  with  mothers  grey ! 

How  little  ye  think  that  they  for  you 
Are  toiling  their  lives  away! 

How  little  ye  care  if  their  hearts  and  souls. 

Of  lonofinors  are  never  stilled, 

If  your  house,  are  neat  and  your  stomachs  full 
And  the  wants  of  your  souls  are  filled. 

It  is  work — work — work ! 

Like  a slave  with  chain  and  ball. 

And  never  a word  of  praise. 

Ora  kind  caress  withal. 

O God!  we  sow  so  much. 

How  little  do  we  reap! 

For  ah,  man’s  love  is  held  so  dear. 

And  woman’s  life  so  cheap! 

This  wearying  round  of  work 
Has  stepped  out  many  a life, 

From  the  chirp  of  the  wren,  till  the  chime  of  ten. 
Is  the  work  of  a farmer’s  wife. 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


64- 


It  is  step — step — step! 

From  the  morn  of  her  wedding  day, 
And  work — work — work! 

All  life’s  golden  hours  away. 

Toiling  through  days  of  rain, 

Working  when  days  are  fair. 

Beating  the  round  through  pain  and  grief. 
And  e’en  through  days  of  prayer. 

It  is  toil — toil — toil! 

Not  a moment  from  care  allowed. 

And  all  that’s  given  is  a simple  living. 

And  a coffin  and  shroud! 


HAPPINESS. 

A phantom  ship  that  ever  glides 
Beyond  our  reach,  the  dancing  tides, 

A thing  of  Heaven  indeed,  she  seems, 
Her  sails  aglow  in  sunny  beams; 

Pursue  her  not,  and  she  will  rest 
Upon  the  waves  content  and  blest 
Within  your  sight,  that  you  may  gaze 
On  her  and  joy  through  blissful  days. 
Pursue  her,  and  the  joyous  crew 
Will  beck  and  smile,  and  lure  you; 

But  grasp  her,  lo!  the  crew  will  turn 
To  haggard,  mocking  forms.  You  learn 
Too  late,  the  eager  chase  was  vain, 

And  sink  despairing  ’neath  the  main. 


wouldn’t  you? 


WOULDN’T  YOU? 

He  told  me  my  face  was  the  purest, 

And  fairest  he  ever  had  known; 

The  bobolink  envied  my  singing, 

The  nightingale  mimicked  its  tone; 

My  dimples  they  quarreled  with  cherries. 
Just  under  eyes  tender  and  blue. 

My  tresses  they  angered  the  sunbeams — 
I half  disbelieved,  wouldn’t  you? 

He  told  me  my  fingers  were  dainty. 

My  lips  only  modeled  to  kiss, 

“And  would  I give  one  of  the  sweetest 
For  such  a j^oor  bauble  as  this?” 

O,  may  be  I ought  not  to ’ve  done  it, 

But  he  looked  so  pleading  and  true. 
The  ring  was  so  pretty,  I took  it. 

And  gave  him  the  kiss,  wouldn’t  you? 

He  told  me  there  was  a neat  cottage 
Just  down  near  the  rocks  by  the  sea. 
Where  bright  roses  nodded  a welcome. 
And  mocking-birds  waited  for  me. 

With  himself,  of  course,  for  the  master, 
’Twas  made  plenty  large  for  us  two; 

I forget  what  I said,  but  I’m  thinking 
I kissed  him  again,  wouldn’t  you? 


06 


LEISURK  HOUR  POEMS. 


THE  MAN  WHO  DIED  FOR  ME. 


A friend  .-U  Arlington  Heights  once  witnessed  extnrordinary  demonstr.Ttions  of 
grief  by  .a  poor  man,  who  was  le  iring  the  grass  and  kissing  the  giave  o(  one  of  the 
soldiers,  and,  on  being  questioned,  related  the  incident  which  gave  rise  to  the  fol- 
lowing : 


It  is  no  brother,  lying  here, 

No  son,  or  kindred,  e’en, 

But  more  than  these,  and  if  you  list 
You’ll  say  the  same,  I ween. 

Only  a soldier,  brave  and  true. 

No  kith  or  kin,  had  he, 

But  I have  come  to  kiss  the  grave 
Of  him  who  died  for  me. 

When  I was  drafted — ah,  the  times 
\Verc  hitter  hard  to  bear! 

My  Bessie  and  the  little  ones 
Clung  to  me  in  despair. 

For  I was  all  there  was  to  feed 
The  little  mouths,  you  see; 

Until  he  came  to  me  one  day — 

The  man  who  died  for  me — 

And  said:  “My  friend,  there’s  none  to  grieve 
For  me  if  I should  fall, 

I cannot  see  my  country  from 
These  wee  ones  take  their  all; 

Then  let  me  fill  your  place,  my  boy, 

And  leave  you  with  them,  free,” 

And  Bessie  kissed  and  clung  to  him — 

The  man  who  died  for  me. 


GIVE  US  BACK  THE  LAUREL. 


67 


Ah  yes,  he  fell;  and  Bess  and  I, 

Have  mourned  for  this  dear  one, 

As  we  could  never  weep  and  mourn 
For  brother,  kin,  or  son. 

And  we  have  toiled,  and  earned,  and  saved, 
And  I have  come,  you  see, 

A thousand  miles  to  kiss  the  grave 
Of  him  who  died  for  me. 

To-night,  when  they  all  kneel  at  home. 
They’ll  breathe  the  oft  told  prayer 
That  God  will  bless  with  perfect  rest 
His  soul.  And  may  be  There 
His  joys  would  seem  more  blest,  if  God 
AVould  from  eternity, 

Let  him  once  gaze  on  us  who  mourn 
The  man  who  died  for  me. 


GIVE  US  BACK  THE  LAUREL. 

I love  the  knights  of  old,  who  won 
With  spear  and  spur  the  hearts 
Of  ladies  fair,  and  not  by  love’s 
Most  counterfeited  arts. 

Those  brave  rare  men  of  sacrifice — 

No  sword  e’er  wore  a sheath. 

Until  each  neck  had  won  a scarf. 

Or  brow  a laurel  wreath, 


68 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEM^. 


By  fair  hands  woven.  O’er  each  bloom 
A prayer  was  breathed  that  he 
Would  never  let  his  honor  dim 
Who  won  by  bravery. 

I love  the  knights  of  old,  for  ah, 

Full  worthy  of  the  love 
Of  women  pure  were  those  brave  men. 

As  stars  that  shone  above; 

Who  thought  no  sacrifice  too  great. 

And  prized  the  fond  caress 
Of  woman’s  love,  akin  to  Heaven, 

In  truth  and  tenderness; 

Whose  hands  were  raised  with  ready  will. 
In  sure,  unerring  aim. 

To  mark  with  blood  the  spot  he  stood 
Who  would  defile  her  name. 

I love  the  knights  of  old,  for  oh. 

To-day  we  know,  and  weep. 

That  purest  love  of  women’s  hearts. 

Is  held  so  cheap,  so  cheap. 

And  oft  times  cast  aside  for  those 
Who  walk  in  shadowed  ways. 

Whom  virtue  could  but  blush  to  meet: 
And  when  on  these  I gaze. 

And  then  on  stainless  women’s  lives. 

And  careless  hearts  of  men, 

I pray  kind  Heaven  to  give  us  back 
The  laurel  wreath  again. 


DECEIVED. 


69 


DECEIVED. 

They  stood  amid  the  blossoms  bright, 
And  smiled  in  idle  talk. 

She  seemed  fair  as  the  daisy  blooms, 

That  nodded  by  the  walk. 

Her  heart  was  pure  and  innocent, 

Her  eyes  were  fraught  with  beams 

Of  love-light,  and  her  joyous  laugh 
Rang  pure  as  rippling  streams. 

She  thought  him  noblest  of  his  kind. 

And  judged  him  true  and  grand; 

She  might  have  read  him  truly  by 
The  blossom  in  his  hand. 

The  bloom  she  plucked  beside  the  path. 
And  deemed  that  he  might  prize 

It  fairer  that  she  gathered  it, 

Than  others  ’neath  the  skies. 

The  daisy’s  golden  heart  he  burst 
With  laughter  light  and  gay. 

Then  cast  its  petals,  one  by  one. 
Unconsciously  away. 

And  thus  she  might  have  read  him  whom 
She  thought  free  from  all  art; 

He  prized  her  pure  affection  as 
The  daisy’s  golden  heart. 


7^ 


LEISURE  HOUR  I*OEMS. 


AFTER  MANY  DAYS. 

All,  good  Ileav’cn!  is  that  Rutli  whom  we  knew  years  ago 
That  sweet  wild-bloom,  one  summer  I met 
In  the  country,  and  left  in  such  terrible  woe? 

I remember  her  pale  face  e’en  yet. 

Can  it  be  she  is  here  with  that  look  on  her  face. 

And  those  jewels  ablaze  in  ber  hair? 

And  not  even  a sorrovvfid  tinge  do  I trace 
On  her  visage  so  wondronsly  fair. 

O!  but  isn’t  she  grand?  Like  a siren’s  her  smile — 

How  she  sobbed  when  I bade  her  good-bye 
In  tbe  lane,  and  I felt  like  a villain  the  while. 

And  I thought  of  her  oft  with  a sigh, 

For  she  loved  me  then  truly,  but  wdiat  could  I do? 

For  gold  smiled  not  on  cither,  you  sec, 

“You  say  somebody’s  left  her  the  mint  of  a jew?” 

Ah!  I wonder  if  she  thinks  of  me? 

For  some  women  will  cling  to  one  love  all  their  days; 

“And  you  told  her  I was  to  be  here?” 

(vSee  her  eyes  roam  about  in  that  wandering  gaze, 

She  is  looking  for  some  one,  that’s  clear.) 

But  see!  who  is  that  greets  her  in  such  tender  way 
While  her  glance  beams  on  him  like  a star? 

“She’s  been  married  three  years!  He’s  her  husband,” 
you  say? 

Bah!  how  fickle,  falsc-souled  women  are. 


IDLERS. 


I must  go!  And  she  even  forgets  that  I live! 

How  her  face  shone  with  love’s  tender  light. 

The  best  years  of  my  life,  ah,  how  freely  I’d  give, 

For  that  glance  of  her  fond  eyes  to-night! 

And  has  she  ever  dreamed  of  revenge?  For  a lance 
Has  to  night  pierced  this  gay  heart  of  mine; 

God!  how  glorious  her  face,  and  how  tender  that  glance. 
And — how  brightly  those  jewels  do  shine. 


IDLERS. 

O why  do  ye  stand  in  the  market  place 
With  idly  clasped  hands  all  the  day? 

While  the  golden  sun  shines 
With  its  tenderest  glow. 

And  the  neglected  vines 
Hang  so  drooping  and  low. 

And  the  bright  leaves  are  withering  away. 

There  are  stems  to  train,  there  are  boughs  to  bend. 
Else  the  fruit  blossoms  wither  and  die. 

There  are  vines  you  can  train. 

There  are  tendrils  to  cling; 

And  oh,  what  will  ye  gain. 

If  ye  so  idly  sing. 

As  the  bright  hours  of  pruning  time  fly  ? 


72 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


Tlie  work  it  is  hard,  do  ye  think? — Yea,  hard 
And  great  for  the  laborer’s  few, 

Who  are  weak  and  depressed. 

And  are  weary  and  sore. 

They  would  gladly  seek  rest — 

Aye,  we  sadly  need  more. 

And  the  Master  is  calling  for  you. 

And  the  hire  is  poor? — Nay,  nay,  it  is  rich — 
Far  richer  than  treasures  of  gold. 

Or  the  wide  world’s  renown. 

Or  its  diamonds  most  rare. 

Will  be  the  bright  crown 
The  glad  lab’rers  shall  wear, 

When  the  wealth  of  the  vintage  is  told. 


ELFIN. 

I know  a little  elfin  fair. 

With  eyes  of  bluest  blue. 

Whose  hair  is  like  a silken  web 
\Vith  sunlight  shining  through; 

O O O 7 

Whose  cheeks  like  ajDple  blossoms  are. 
Whose  brow,  pure  as  a pearl. 

But  she  wears  frocks  of  calico, 

Just  like  a little  girl. 

She  does  not  like  to  study  well. 

She  does  not  like  to  sew. 

But  who  e’er  saw  a fairy-spright 
That  worked?  I’d  like  to  know. 


ELFIN. 


73 


And  what  this  dainty  elfin  does, 

You’d  like  to  hear  I s’pose? 

She  just  makes  sunshine  in  the  house, 
And  laughs,  and  plays,  and  grows. 

And  chats  and  talks,  and  talks  and  chats. 
And  says  the  queerest  things. 

And  when  she’s  tired  of  talking,  then 
She  rests  awhile  and  sings. 

I think  some  cunning  angel  tells 
Her  in  each  morning  dream 
What  she  must  say,  for  all  the  day, 

She  talks  a “ jDerfect  stream,” 

Bob  says,  and  calls  her  tiny  lips 
As  noisy  as  a mill. 

And  like  the  wings  of  butterflies, 

I think  them  never  still. 

She’s  just  a fearful  little  pest. 

So  Grandpa  says,  and  smiles. 

And  tosses  her,  and  gives  her  sweets. 
And  kisses  between  whiles. 

But  Grandma,  whom  she  plies  all  day 
With  questions  broad  and  tall. 

Says  home  without  our  little  elf 
Would  be  no  home  at  all. 

And  so  we  kiss  her  chattering  lips. 

And  kiss  her  tiny  feet. 

And  pray  Him  who  loves  little  ones 
To  keep  her  pure  and  sweet. 


6 


74 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


WHY  SHOULD  I? 

Why  should  I care, 

If  my  Rupert,  with  the  princely  air 
And  handsome  face,  should  linger  long 
With  other  girls,  in  dance  and  song. 
Why  should  I care? 

Why  should  I sigh. 

If  he  praises  the  lips  of  Kittie  Bly ; 

If  he  declare  her  handsome  eyes 
Are  fairer  than  the  June-day  skies. 

Why  should  I cry? 

Why  should  I frown, 

When  he  notes  the  style  of  Susie  Brown, 
And  raves  about  her  queenly  grace. 
And  the  soft  curves  of  her  bright  face. 
Why  should  I frowm? 

Ah,  surely,  why? 

I can  tell  in  a trice  when  he  is  nigh. 

His  gay  heart  holds  no  one  but  me. 

Yet  man-like,  oh,  he  longs  to  see 
!Me  pine  and  sigh. 

There’s  Ned  and  Joe, 

And  there’s  Tom  and  Will,  on  me  bestow 
Many  a thrilling,  tender  glance. 

And  press  my  hand  in  mazy  dance. 

And  so,  and  so, 


FARMER  GRIMES. 


75 


My  life  is  sweet, 

And  my  Rupert  frets  instead  of  me; 
And  ho!  I laugh  and  dance  and  sing, 
For  well  I know  that  time  will  bring 
Him  to  my  feet. 


FARMER  GRIMES. 

Yes,  Grimes  is  dead,  that  good  old  soul. 
No  more  you’ll  see  his  face 
On  earth,  for  he  has  gone  where  none 
Their  footsteps  may  retrace. 

He  was  a Granger  true  and  just. 

And  with  the  Grangers  sat, 

A pitch-fork  in  his  brown  right  hand, 

A plow-badge  on  his  hat. 

His  face  was  beaming  o’er  with  smiles. 
Just  as  the  Grangers’  are. 

His  eyes  so  bright,  you’d  think  at  night 
That  each  was  some  new  star. 

The  old  blue  coat  he  used  to  wear. 

All  buttoned  down  before. 

Once  cost  in  dollars  quite  a sum — 

Some  fifty,  less  or  more. 


76 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


But  had  he  waited  till  this  time, 

He’d  got  the  latest  style, 

A good  fair  coat,  six  buttons  front. 

And  saved  a handsome  pile. 

He  left  an  energetic  wife 

Who  kept  the  shining  floors; 

She  loved  the  dirt,  believed  it  good — 

When  it  was  out  of  doors. 

She  washed,  and  baked,  and  mopped,  and  churned. 
Her  nerves  were  ne’er  unstrung ; 

She  always  knew  just  when  to  speak. 

And  when  to  hold  her  tongue. 

His  girls  were  smart  at  books  or  broom. 

The  organ,  too,  could  play; 

Could  bat  a ball,  or  pitch  a quoit, 

Or  beat  you  at  croquet. 

They  wore  no  trail  on  washing  days. 

For  sense  they  did  not  lack; 

Were  just  as  fair  as  she  who  wears 
A thousand  on  her  back. 

His  boys  were  bright  as  any  boys; 

Had  learned  at  different  schools; 

But  though  they  knew  a thing  or  two 
They  were  not  College  fools. 


FARMER  GRIMES. 


77 


They’d  studied  latin,  love  and  law, 

And  still  ’tis  strange,  ’tis  true. 

They  did  not  think  they  knew  far  more 
Than  Grant  and  Beecher  too. 

And  Grimes  was  earnest  in  his  toil. 
Though  but  a “ farmer  flat;” 

He  didn’t  mince  his  life-work  out 
Like  an  aristocrat. 

Whene’er  he  met  the  “middle-men,” 
His  face  would  always  frown. 

And  if  they  didn’t  pace  the  field 
He’d  surely  rake  them  down. 

Sometimes  a railroad  manager 
Would  argue  ’gainst  the  cause. 

But  farmer  Grimes  was  smart  at  words. 
And  looking  out  for  straws. 

His  arguments,  whate’er  they  were. 
Were  splendidly  fenced  in; 

He  pitched  his  words  when  in  the  right. 
And  was  most  sure  to  win. 

He  sowed  his  reasons  good  and  thick. 
And  dragged  them  over  well. 

And  watched  the  other  sow  his  weeds — 
In  which  he  did  excel. 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


Then  harrowed  all  the  wild  weeds  up, 
And  planted  there  the  facts, 

And  cultivated  honest  truth 
In  all  his  words  and  acts. 

And  then  he  bound  his  arguments 
In  the  just  word  of  God — 

That  never  can  be  broke  or  bent 
Though  trampled  iron  shod. 

His  adversary’s  reasonings 

Ne’er  threw  him  off  the  track. 

And  when  he  had  them  well  threshed  out. 
He  gave  the  husks  all  back. 

His  grain  is  garnered  from  the  field; 

His  sickle  wears  a sheath; 

His  plow’s  at  rest,  and  on  his  brow 
He  bears  a laurel  wreath. 

And  though  upon  that  far-off  shore 
His  footsteps  ever  roam, 

The  badge  of  Honor  proud  he  wears 
Up  in  the  Granger’s  Home. 


LILIES. 


79 


LILIES. 

On  the  pure  forehead  immaculate,  rare, 
Pressing  the  ringlets  of  soft-shining  hair. 

So  like  the  soul  of  the  innocent  one 
Whose  tiny  being  has  only  begun; 

Stainless  as  angel  robes,  snowiest  white. 

Ah,  was  there  ever  a daintier  sight? 

Lilies  of  beauty,  from  fairies’  own  mould. 
Resting  in  baby’s  silk  tresses  of  gold. 

On  the  white  forehead  of  maidenhood  fair. 
Twined  in  the  ringlets  of  shining  brown  hair. 
So  like  the  joy  of  the  newly-made  wife; 

So  like  the  hopes  of  her  own  future  life. 
Guileless  and  pure  as  her  heart  on  that  day. 
Free  from  a thought  of  an  o’erclouded  way. 
What  would  seem  fitter  for  bridal-day  crown, 
’Mong  the  rich  tresses  of  bonniest  brown? 

On  the  pale  forehead  so  furrowed  with  care. 
Pressing  the  soft  threads  of  silvery  hair. 

So  like  the  soul  that  is  free  from  all  sin. 

So  like  the  Heaven  it  entereth  in. 

Spotlessly  rare,  with  its  balm-laden  breath. 
Pale  as  the  hands  folded  calmly  in  death; 
Fairest  of  flowers  are  the  lilies  of  snow. 
Emblems  of  all  that  is  purest  below. 


8o 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


THE  POETS. 

The  poets  are  crazy,  I often  have  read, 

And  I really  think  it  is  true; 

The  wonderful  things  that  they  all  see  and  hear, 

I never  once  did — say,  did  you? 

They  write  about  all  that  the  bobolink  says 
And  sings  when  he’s  courting  his  mate — 

How  the  other  birds  nod  at  each  other  and  smile 
If  he  in  the  morning  sleeps  late. 

They  know  what  the  wild  breezes  say  to  the  leaves. 
And  what  they  are  laughing  about — 

Tell  how  the  gay  humming-bird  flirts  with  the  rose. 

As  sadly  the  marigolds  pout. 

They  tell  how  the  evergreens  gossip  and  talk — 

How  rudely  the  sunbeams  doth  smile. 

When  bumble-bee  flatters  the  weak,  silly  pink. 

His  languishing  hours  to  beguile. 

They  know  what  the  stars  to  the  singing  brooks  say. 
When  we  only  see  that  they  wink; 

Tell  how  the  waves  laugh  when  their  bright  mirror  shows 

o o 

The  sun-fairies  stooping  to  drink. 

They  know  what  the  fair,  dainty  lily-buds  dream 
When  nightingale  sings  them  to  sleep. 

And  hear  all  the  song  that  the  pink  sea-shells  sing 
Of  scenes  in  the  waters  so  deep. 


SPARROWS. 


8l 


They  know  where  the  clouds  are  all  hurrying  to, 
And  what  makes  the  angry  waves  swell — 

All  ’bout  the  rude  echo  that  lives  in  the  rocks, 
And  lots  more  I never  could  tell. 

I know  I am  sane,  and  I never  see 
Any  such  “ goings  on”  now,  do  you? 

I often  have  heard  that  the  poets  are  mad. 

And  I just  believe  it  is  true. 


SPARROWS. 

Little  sparrows  twittering  high 
Above  our  heads,  a tender  eye 
In  chilling  storm  or  golden  light. 

Is  watching  always,  and  in  flight 
Or  merry  song.  He  marks  it  all. 

And  pities  every  harm  or  fall. 

And  are  we  less  than  these?  Will  He 
Pass  us  in  anger  stern,  if  we 
In  sin  should  fall  beside  the  way — 
And  pity  not  our  sorrow?  Nay, 

The  same  fond  eye  is  over  all. 

That  marks  the  tiny  sparrow’s  fall. 


82 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


CHILDREN. 

Happy  little  children,  tripping  to  and  fro, 

On  their  pretty  faces  not  a shade  of  woe, 

Eyes  where  sunshine  lingers  in  their  joyous  light. 

Some  as  blue  as  heaven,  some  as  black  as  night; 

Some  with  melting  sweetness,  some  where  laughter  lies. 
Some  are  full  of  mischief,  some  are  strangely  wise. 
Golden  tresses  waving,  flowing  ringlets  brown. 

Fairer  far  in  beauty  than  the  richest  crown. 

Lips  as  red  as  berries,  ah,  and  just  as  sweet. 

Keeping  measure  gaily  with  the  restless  feet. 

Cheeks  that  vie  with  roses,  In-ovvs  as  white  as  snow. 

And  as  pure  as  pearls  the  hearts  that  beat  below. 

Not  an  envious  feeling,  not  a look  of  pride. 

Not  a thought  of  anger  do  your  young  hearts  hide. 
Placid  as  the  morning  in  it’s  tend’rest  ray. 

Filled  with  peace  and  gladness  are  your  lives  to-day. 

Happy  little  children,  innocent  and  true. 

How  we,  growing  older,  watch  and  envy  you; 

Count  your  little  sayings  wise,  and  true  as  gold. 

Just  as  much  believed  as  oracles  of  old; 

' And  your  tiny  footsteps  guide  in  paths  of  light. 

Strive  to  keep  you  ever  pure  in  His  sight. 

Ah,  I never  wonder  that  the  Lamb  of  Love 
Likened  little  children  to  the  home  above. 


LOVE  MAKING. 


83. 


LOVE  MAKING. 

The  tulip  is  folding  her  petals 
To  hide  with  love’s  tenderest  art 
The  message  the  humming-bird  whispered 
Her  fluttering  heart. 


The  rose  her  bright  visage  is  shading, 

Lest  curious  mortals  may  know 
Her  blushes  are  caused  by  the  glances 
The  bold  sunbeams  throw. 

The  violet,  trusting  and  dainty. 

Bends  shyly  her  sky-tinted  brow. 

Forsooth  the  gay  breeze  paused  and  left  there 
A fond  kiss  just  now.  ^ 

The  daisy’s  white  petals  are  shielding 
Our  gaze  from  her  golden  heart  fair. 
Because  a gay  sweetheart  has  hidden 
Love’s  honey-dew  there. 

But  mortals  read  not  in  their  worry 
The  dear  secrets  born  ’neath  the  skies. 

Nor  see,  ’mid  their  toil  the  love  making 
Right  under  their  eyes. 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


84  - 


FLIRTATION  WEARY. 

Yes,  go!  I am  weary  of  playing 
With  hearts  as  deceiving  as  yours; 

For  oft  there  are  glances  so  tender 
E’en  hearts  of  the  fickle  will  lure. 

I own  you  are  artful  and  deeper 
Than  you  at  the  first  seemed  to  be, 

But  o’erstepping  rules,  sir,  so  widely. 

Soon  wearies  the  soul,  don’t  you  see? 

You  don’t?  Why  you  cheat  like  a gambler. 
Though  boyishly  pinned  to  your  sleeve 

Your  heart  you  so  seemingly  carry. 

Yet  me,  sir,  you  do  not  deceive. 

I scorn  one  who  stoops  to  such  cunning — 
Who  strives  thus  the  batt’ries  to  hide; 

I’ll  not  so  be  caught,  and  I tell  you. 

By  rules  of  the  game  you  must  bide. 

“The  rules  of  what  game?”  Why,  flirtation. 
How  charmingly  artful  you’ve  growm! 

'‘'‘You  never  were  flirting?”  Well,  dear  me! 
That’s  odd  for  a man,  sir,  to  own. 

Now  look  in  my  eyes  as  you  say  it: 

“Don’t  I love  you  surely?”  you  plead; 

“Will  not  I your  sweet-heart  be  truly ^ 

And  can’t  I your  earnestness  read?” 


MY  SHIPS, 


'•8s 


Withal  have  I been  so  mistaken? 

This  sentiment  love,  seems  to  me, 

One  counterfeits  oft  in  flirtation. 

’Tis  hard  ’neath  the  mask,  sir,  to  see. 

“You  wait  with  impatience  your  answer?” 
Well,  truly,  I hate  to  confess. 

But  now  that  you’ve  put  it  so  plainly, 

I think  that  I’ll — well — I’ll  say  yes. 


MY  SHIPS. 

Ships  are  sailing  by  to-day — 

Some  just  sent  out  on  their  way; 

Some  are  new,  and  firm,  and  fair. 
Some  have  treasures  rich  and  rare, 
Some  are  shattered,  worn  and  old. 

And  are  empty  in  their  hold. 

Some  are  landing  here,  I see. 

None  of  these  belong  to  me. 

Ships  that  wander  long  and  far, 

These  are  mine.  Beyond  the  bar 
Linger  they.  Of  noble  build. 

And  with  treasures  always  filled. 
They  are  storm  and  tempest-tossed. 

But  I know  they’re  never  lost. 

Though  not  one’s  come  back  to  tell 
If  the  rest  fare  ill  or  well. 


86 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


Ships  I send  out  every  day 

In  the  morn  and  twilight  g^rey, 

With  their  white  sails  all  aglow 
In  love’s  sunshine,  thus  they  go. 
Naught  but  hope  their  precious  freight, 
And  I sit  and  watch  and  wait 

And  toil,  and  send  my  ships  to  sea. 
That  never  may  return  to  me. 

Well,  and  what’s  to  me  their  cost, 

Even  though  they  may  be  lost? 

I am  rich  in  hopes  alway — 

Could  a thousand  send  a day; 
What  if  them  I never  view? 

They  may  sometime  come  to  you! 

Still  I send  them.  Let  them  go — 
Some  one  gets  them — this  I know. 


AFTER  ALL. 

When  we  our  loved  ones  sadly  lay, 

To  peaceful  rest, 

The  pulseless  hands  we  fold  away 
Like  lilies  pressed; 

And  hide  their  dear  forms  from  our  sight, 
Wearil}'  sigh, 

And  mourn  the  darkness  of  our  night. 
And  wonder  why 


AFTER  ALL. 


87 


That  all  sweet  joys  are  covered  o’er 
By  death’s  dark  pall — 

O,  we  think  this  the  bitt’rest  lore 
Of  life’s  all. 

When  dear  ones  wander  on  life’s  road, 
And  seek  alone 

To  bear  each  one  his  weary  load, 

Ah!  then  we  moan; 

For  earth  is  wide,  and  they  may  drain 
The  cup  so  deep 

Where  sorrow  lies,  and  in  its  pain 
Will  sigh  and  weep. 

And  we  will  mourn  we  cannot  know 
What  doth  befall. 

And  feel  this  saddest  of  life’s  woe, 

After  all. 

And  so,  methinks,  when  they  are  laid 
To  restful  sleep 

In  the  last  bed  that  earth  has  made, 
Though  grief  be  deep, 

’Tis  well.  For  then,  ah,  then  we  know 
Where  they  do  rest; 

Know  they  are  free  from  life’s  sad  woe. 
And  it  is  best. 

For  no  stern  grief,  nor  pain,  nor  care. 
Can  e’er  befall — 

He  knows  far  best  what  we  can  bear, 
After  all. 


88 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


WHAT  I WILL  TAKE. 

What  will  I take.^  you  ask,  rumseller, 
And  smile  your  craven  smiles, 

And  hold  your  foaming  goblet  mp 
With  all  a tempter’s  wiles. 

I’ll  tell  you  what  I’ll  take,  rumseller. 
From  out  your  madening  wine — 

My  manhood,  as  I owned  it  ere 
The  demon’s  curse  was  mine. 

I’ll  take  the  name  I prized,  rumseller. 
The  friends  that  once  I knew. 

The  honor  I was  proud  to  own 
Before  I gave  it  you. 

I’ll  take  life’s  purest  joys,  rumseller. 
The  home  I loved  so  well; 

The  dear,  fond  ones,  whose  loss  to  me 
No  tongue  on  earth  can  tell. 

And  then  of  you  I’ll  take,  rumseller. 
Out  of  your  baneful  way. 

My  reason,  and  my  life,  and  soul. 

I’ll  take  them  all  this  day. 


SOME  DAY. 


S9 


SOME  DAY. 

Some  day,  darling,  when  we’re  rowing 
O’er  life’s  mystic  ocean  wide. 

Watching  anxiously  the  breakers 
That  are  ’round  us  every  side, 

While  the  sun  seems  hidden,  darling. 

Since  we  left  youth’s  golden  bay : 

Will  you  trust  me  in  the  shadows? 

Some  day,  darling,  some  day. 

Some  day,  darling,  these  strong  fingers 
That  you  press  so  often  now. 

Will  be  brown  and  old  with  rowing, 

And  deep  furrows  mark  my  brow; 

The  dark  locks  you  lightly  finger. 

Dear,  will  some  time  fade  to  grey : 

Will  you  love  me  in  the  shadows? 

Some  day,  darling,  some  day. 

Some  day,  darling,  when  we’re  drifting 
On  the  crystal,  shimmering  tide, 

Silently  a phantom  boatman 
Will  be  rowing  at  our  side. 

Should  your  weak  chains  loose  their  holdings, 
And  your  spirit  glide  away. 

Will  you  miss  me  ’yond  the  shadows? 
Some^day,  darling,  some  day. 


90 


LKISURK  HOUR  I'OEMS. 


MET  AND  PARTED. 

I met  her  the  first  time  at  evenin<^, 

She  seemed  fresh  from  beauty’s  own  mould, 

And  radiantly  fair,  as  the  moonheams 
Touched  fondly  her  tresses  of  gold. 

I wooed  her  and  won  her,  while  others 
Despairing  were  sent  from  her  side; 

And  filled  with  love’s  sunshine  the  morning 
I greeted  my  proud,  peerless  bride. 

We  parted  at  evening.  Around  us 

The  sad,  trembling  blooms  lay  in  tears; 

Between  us  seemed  gathering  the  twilight, 
Like  spectres  of’ long  future  years. 

■ We  quarreled — I jealous  and  stuliborn — 

*She  firm  as  a queen  and  as  proud, 

We  parted  with  faces  like  marble, 

Our^hearts  full  of  grief,  yet  unbowed. 

We  met  once  again — at  her  bedside 
I bent  o’er  her  pain  stricken  face; 

And  in  the  calm  kiss  of  forgiveness. 

The  old  tender  love  1 could  trace. 

We  parted  again.  In  the  church-yard 
I left  her  in  soul-resting  sleep. 

Where  sad  breezes  sob  in  the  twilight, 

With  blossoms  tnat  pityingly  weep. 


A PROSY  STORY  IN  HOMELY  RHYME. 


91 


A PROSY  STORY  IN  HOMELY  RHYME. 

D’ye  see  that  man  across  the  street 
That  walks  with  pomjDOus  stride, 

And  that  sad  woman  humbly  like 
A walking  at  his  side? 

They’re  man  and  wife,  and  though  you  see. 

She’s  plain,  and  small,  and  slim. 

Yet,  sir,  she’s  got  more  solid  grit 
Than  twenty  men  like  him. 

You  would’nt  think  it,  would  you  now. 

With  all  that  air  so  grand. 

That  when  the  plague  came  here,  he  took 
A trip  to  furrin’  land. 

He  had  a call  to  preach  His  word. 

And  ’fore  the  sun  arose 

One  morn  he  started,  lest  he’d  lose 
One  heathen  soul,  I ’spose. 

And  she  went  with  him  too,  you  ask? 

If  you  imagine,  sir. 

She  owns  one  drop  of  coward’s  blood. 

You’ll  lose  your  bet  on  her. 

Not  much!  The  little  woman  staid 
And  toiled  morn,  noon  and  night, 

Nor  thought  that  she  might  be  the  next 
To  fcill  with  fever’s  blight. 


92 


LlilSURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


There  ’re  men  here  in  this  town  would  give 
That  woman  all  they  own. 

And  why  not?  But  for  her  their  names 
Would  mark,  sir,  many  a stone. 

I know  of  scores  of  hardy  men 
Who  boasted  bravery  rare; 

When  came  the  yellow  fever  test, 

D’ye  know,  it  wasn’t  there! 

Men  who  skipped  at  the  first  alarm, 

These  same  brave  men  were  they. 

Who  locked  up  houses,  mills  and  banks. 

And  took  the  keys  away. 

And  woman’s  fair  hands,  weak  and  small. 
Took  up  the  slackened  reins 

Of  order  and  humanity. 

Enduring  all  the  pains. 

And  dangers.  How  they  planned  and  worked 
Through  all  those  griefs  and  woes. 

Among  the  dead  and  dying  ones. 

The  good  Lord  only  knows. 

Well,  as  I said,  she  staid  and  toiled. 

He  had  a furrin’  call. 

But  when  the  plague  subsided,  he 
Came  home,  baggage  and  all. 


A PROSY  STORY  IN  HOMELY  RHYME. 


93 


His  health  was  failin’.  Furrin’  air 
Was  bad  upon  his  lungs, 

He  gathered  up  a little  flock, 

And  with  a thousand  tongues 

He  thanked  the  Lord  that  He  had  blessed 
“Our”  earnest  works  sublime. 

In  saving  precious  lives  and  souls. 
Throughout  this  trying  time. 

And  we  all  smiled,  but  nothing  said. 

And  let  me  tell  to  you. 

There’s  many  a noble  deed  the  Lord 
Can’t  trust  mankind  to  do. 

But  puts  it  into  woman’s  heart. 

He  knows  she’ll  take  the  bit 
Between  her  teeth  and  pull  the  load. 

Nor  balk  a single  whit. 

And  just  in  here  the  moral  comes. 

Its  queer,  sir,  ain’t  it  now. 

That  man  gets  credit  for  it  all — 

Will  have  it  any  how. 

For  mark  you,  here  she  drops  the  deed; 

He  struts  the  street  and  blows 
On  what  “I  did,”  while  she  is  home 
A mendin’  up  his  clothes. 


94 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


FORGET. 


“Forget  me,”  are  the  words  you  penned 
Upon  a dainty  sheet, 

Nor  thought  that  unto  bitterness 
You’d  turned  the  chalice  sweet; 

.You  did  not  know  the  toils  of  life 
Would  ever  seem  to  me 
A dreary  burden,  now  that  I 
Am  bidden  to  forget  thee. 

“Forget  thee,”  ah,  Fve  prayed  in  vain 
And  striven  to  forget. 

But  thy  dear  face  in  every  place 
Pursues  me  even  yet. 

Could  I forget  the  sun  doth  shine. 

Or  Heaven’s  love  is  free — 

Could  I forget  that  life  is  grief — 

Ah!  then  could  I forget  thee. 

“Forget  thee.”  Though  another’s  lips 
Must  sometime  call  thee  “ wife,” 

Yet  thine  own  countenance  must  shine 
All  through  my  weary  life. 

And  now  may  Heaven’s  choicest  sweets 
And  gifts  thine  ever  be; 

And  may  thy  heart  be  never  sad 
That  I can  ne’er  forget  thee. 


TO  MY  SISTER. 


95 


TO  MY  SISTER. 

Sweet  sister-friend,  for  sympathy  ■ 

How  often  I have  turned  to  thee; 

How  oft  thine  arms  in  tenderness 
Have  folded  me  in  fond  caress; 

How  oft  in  fever’s  burning  pain 
Your  loving  hands  have  soothed  my  brain; 
How  oft  thy  tender  words  of  balm 
Hath  brought  my  heart  a peaceful  calm. 

The  only  one  to  whom  I ope 

The  secret  doors  where  joy  and  hope, 

And  pain  and  grief  their  revels  hold 
Within  my  heart.  The  grains  of  gold 

From  dross  thy  heart  can’st  quickly  tell. 
For  thou  dost  weigh  my  soul  so  well. 

And  soundest  every  smile  and  sigh. 

And  knowest  just  how  deep^tliey  lie. 

When  thou  art  absent,  how  I pine 
For  thy  fond  words,  O sister  mine; 

And  oft  in  stillness  of  the  night 
I think  of  thee  with  true  delight. 

The  greatest  boon  of  Heaven  I crave 
Is,  that  the  immortelles  shall  wave 
Not  long  above  my  form,  ere  I 
Shall  meet  my  sister-love  on  high. 


96 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


GOD’S  CHILDREN. 

O little  faces  pinched  and  spare, 

And  tiny  limbs  sunbrowned  and  bare; 

O tired  feet  that  wander  so 
Amid  the  scenes  of  want  and  woe; 

O weary  eyes  that  aching  gaze, 

And  tender  hearts  that  know  not  praise. 
And  hungering  mouths  so  seldom  filled, 
And  longing  spirits  never  stilled. 

Had  I the  wealth  that  some  men  know. 
Your  aching  hearts  a Heaven  I’d  show. 
Where  all  your  woes  would  find  relief. 
Where  even  man  forgets  his  grief; 

Not  out  of  books  I’d  read  His  love, 

For  His  own  voice  speaks  from  above; 
His  breath  of  b^dm  your  checks  will  kiss. 
And  lull  you  into  dreams  of  bliss. 

Out  from  the  city’s  glaring  halls 
Of  hollow  pomp;  its  prison  walls 
And  mansion  homes,  its  huts  of  want. 
And  churches  rare  no  poor  must  haunt. 
Out  from  the  noise,  and  roar,  and  din. 
Out  from  the  hardened  paths  of  sin. 

Your  little  feet  have  trod  too  long — 
Wandering  feet  that  knew  no  wrong; 


TWO  LIVES. 


Into  the  fields  of  rainbow  hue, 

O’er-spread  with  richest  diamond  dew, 
Where  He  his  treasures  doth  unfold, 

And  rarest  emerald,  ruby,  gold. 

Are  laid  in  beauty  at  your  feet; 

Where- His  own  choirs  are  singing  sweet. 
And  all  is  joyous,  pure  and  gay. 

There  would  I lead  your  stejDS  to-day. 

How  I would  watch  your  eyes  grow  bright, 
And  fill  with  wondering,  happy  light. 

And  watch  your  pale  cheeks  crimson  grow 
As  smiles  of  sunshine  flit  and  glow 
Upon  your  face,  and  hearts  grow  free 
F rom  woe  and  want,  as  here  you  see 
A Heaven  of  joy,  where  e’er  you  roam. 
Within  the  light  of  God’s  own  home. 


TWO  LIVES. 

“Why  kneel  you  yet?  I have  forgiven  you 
The  deepest  wrong  a man  could  ever  do 
A woman’s  love,”  she  said, 

“So  fond  and  true. 

I say  you  are  forgiven,  but  yet  you  kneel. 
And  why?  You  kiss  my  hand  until  I feel 
The  bitterest  pain  of  woe  at  this 
Sad,  mute  appeal.” 


98 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


“What  do  you  ask?  ‘My  trust  and  love,  and  then 
To  blot  from  out  my  heart  the  cruel  pain 
And  memories,  and  take 
You  back  again?’ 

Why  did  you  come  to  leave  my  heart  for  aye, 

The  thought  of  trembling  lips  that  plead  and  pray. 
When  only  this  one  answer,  1 
Must  give  alway.” 

“My  love  you  always  have.  I could  not  will 
It  otherwise.  It  is  ’yond  human  skill 
To  change  its  power.  In  death 
I’ll  love  you  still. 

No  need  to  ask  to  be  forgiven.  Well 

You  knew  before  you  asked,  my  lips  would  tell 
You  aye,  e’en  were  my  anguished  soul 
In  deepest  hell.” 

“But  ah,  my  trust  In  you  Indeed  is  o’er! 

Like  some  proud  wreck,  it  tossed  from  shore  to  shore, 
Till  tempest-lashed  it  sank 
To  rise  no  more. 

I ne’er  can  take  you  back.  F orgive,  I pray. 

The  phantom  past  would  rise  like  shadows  grey, 
And  rack  my  soul  with  cruel  tortures 
Every  day.” 

“The  bitter  pain  we  will  outlive  I wis. 

And  life  for  us  will  hold  its  share  of  bliss. 

And  we  will  be  content 
Despite  of  this. 


THORNS. 


99 


‘You  do  not  understand  a woman’s  heart?’ 

You  never  will!  But  God  and  angels  part 
The  hiding  veil,  and  know  how  it 
Can  bleed  and  smart, 

And  writhe  in  pain,  and  live  and  love.  But  yet. 
Though  I forgive  and  love  you  still,  shall  fret 
And  pine,  perhaps,  still  I 
Cannot  forget. 

Good  bye!  I can  but  pray  now  as  you  go. 

That  in  the  better  land  God  will  bestow 
On  me,  the  old  time  trust  and  love 
Free  from  this  woe.” 

“ ‘And  you?’  The  world  is  wide.  We  will  not  sigh 
For  long,  though  now  this  seems  to  you  and  I 
The  only  grief  that  life 
Can  hold.  Good-bye ! ” 

They  parted.  And  content  their  lives  do  glide 
In  useful  ways,  and  though  apart  so  wide. 

They  seem  as  blest  as  those  who  are 
Love-satisfied. 


THORNS. 

You  took  the  rose  I held.  An  emblem  true 
Of  love.  Its  thorn  full  soon  appears 
To  stab  your  trusting  heart  and  leave  in  lieu 
Of  joy,  a wound  of  crimson  tears. 


lOO 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


I told  you  thus.  Its  truth  you  would  revoke, — 
Would  clasp  the  rose  and  clasp  it  fast, 

While  paling  lips  did  tell  how  true  I spoke. 

E’en  when  the  trembling  cry  was  past. 

You  ask  a kiss?  You  must  be  mad  indeed. 
They’re  bon-bons  fit  for  babes  alone. 

And  never  soothe  the  heart,  but  fret  and  bleed 
The  wound  of  love — why  do  you  moan? 

“I  cruel  am?  ” It  is  not  so,  for  days 
A-hence  you’ll  laugh  as  all  men  do. 

And  sue  another’s  love,  and  kinder  praise 
Me,  than  if  I had  worshiped  you. 

Requited  love  grows  cold  indeed,  for  see 
How  man  soon  tires  of  wifely  care 

And  love  and  smiles,  and  pines  to  be  more  free — 
To  win  a face  that  seems  more  fair. 

Love  comes  and  goes,  and  leaves  as  it  departs 
The  hearts  of  foolish  ones  to  pine; 

I’d  rather  leave  the  thorn  within  your  heart. 
Than  you  should  leave  it,  sir,  in  mine. 

You  call  me  heartless?  Well,  it  may  be  so, 

I’ve  learned  what  true  love  is,  that’s  all! 

A guest  for  scorning.  Treat  it  well,  and  lo. 

It  leaves  upon  your  heart  a pall. 


YOUR  CASTLES  AND  MINE. 


lOI 


YOUR  CASTLES  AND  MINE. 

Build  your  castles — build  them  grand, 
Rear  them  with  a master-hand; 

Let  your  halls  he  high  and  wide — 

No  weak  spot  the  arches  hide — 

Fill  your  rooms  with  glitt’ring  ore, 

Silk  and  pearls  your  closets  store. 

I will  build  mine  rarer  still — 

Richer  goods  my  castles  fill; 

Though  you  build  yours  towering  high, 
Mine  shall  rise  and  cleave  the  sky; 
Yours  may  all  like  temples  stand — 

I will  build  mine  thrice  as  grand. 

You  must  use  yours  every  day, 

Else  they  moulder  and  decay; 

They  may  cause  you  care  and  woe. 
Wars  may  come  and  lay  them  low. 

So  though  marble  or  of  stone. 

Yet  not  one  is  all  your  own. 

Mine  will  never  cause  me  pain, 

Nor  on  field  of  strife  be  lain; 

Nor  my  treasures  ever  mold, — 

Richer  far  than  pearls  or  gold ; 

They  will  last  while  ages  fly. 

These  my  castles  in  the  sky. 


102 


LKISUKE  IIOUK  POEMS. 


TWILIGHT  GUESTS. 


In  iny  wanderings  in  northern  Wisconsin  I met  a beautiful  old  lady  who  was 
l)lind,  and  she  said  she  could  tell  when  it  was  near  evening,  for  the  air  was  softer,  the 
breezes  lighter,  and  they  seemed  to  be  whispers  among  the  leaves. 


They  tell  me  that  ’tis  twilight — 

Though  long  years  have  passed  away 
Since  I saw  his  loving  sunbeams, 

Or  his  tender  light  so  grey; 

Yet  I know  it  by  the  music 

Of  the  breeze  and  voices  sweet; 

And  upon  the  grass  around  me, 

Hear  the  fall  of  heavenly  feet. 

Know  it  by  the  whispering’s  near  me. 
By  the  breath  upon  my  brow. 

By  the  fingers  in  my  tresses — 

Ah,  I felt  them  there  just  now; 
Mortals  tell  me  ’tis  the  breezes 
In  the  leaves  and  grass  I hear, 

And  I let  them' think  I’m  dreaming. 
When  my  twilight  guests  are  near. 

Every  evening  here  I listen. 

For  their  music  soft  and  low, 

Though  I cannot  see  their  faces, 

Yet  their  voices  all  I know; 

And  they  whisper  in  the  twilight. 

That  they’ll  bring,  some  evening  lone, 
A grim  guest  so  strange  and  silent — 
One  that  I have  never  known. 


KISSES  OF  PEACE. 


103 


And  these  blind  old  eyes  shall  open — 
Not  in  earth’s  calm  twilight  gi'ey, 
But  where  I shall  know  their  faces, 

In  the  light  of  His  own  day. 

And  I sit  and  wait  and  listen, 

As  the  twilight  comes  to  me. 

For  the  footsteps  of  the  stranger 
Whom  I shall  not  dread  to  see. 


KISSES  OF  PEACE. 


All  the  day  lias  been  beautiful,  darling. 

The  golden  beams  outside  have  lain 
On  the  grass  and  the  blooms  like  a blessing. 
But  sad  was  my  heart  in  its  pain. 


For  they  haunted  my  mind  like  grim  spectres — 
The  words  we  spake  harshly  this  morn — 

I’ve  regretted  the  stern  tones  sincerely. 

And  pined  o’er  those  fierce  looks  of  scorn. 

And  amidst  the  bird’s  merriest  carols 

The  thoughts  e’er  would  come  to  my  mind, 
That  the  dark  cloud  would  never  be  lifted. 

If  fate  should  forget  to  be  kind ; 


LEISURli  HOUR  POEMS. 


And  the  years  might  be  burdened  with  sorrow, 
For  O,  should  I miss  from  to-day, 

Your  loved  footsteps  beside  me — how  weary 
And  long  would  seem  earth’s  lonely  way. 

Aiul  so,  love,  I have  mourned  and  have  waited. 
As  never  I waited  before. 

For  the  shadows  of  twilight  to  deepen — 

To  greet  you  again  at  the  door. 

And  more  precious  than  fame,  friends  or  treasures 
Which  ne’er  cause  the  heart’s  woes  to  cease. 

Is  to  meet  yon,  dear  one,  at  the  twi  light, 

And  feel  your  fond  kisses  of  peace. 


AUTUMxY-TIME. 

As  the  richest  leaves  of  autumn. 
Gather  glories  day  by  day. 
Growing  perfect  in  their  beauty. 
While  bright  blossoms  fade  a wav, 
Changing  emerald,  gold  and  ruby. 
Nature’s  rarest,  richest  dyes. 

Till  they  fall  and  rest  forever, 

’Neath  the  soft  autumnal  skies; 

So  may  our  years  ever  gather 
Riches  that  are  pure  and  blest. 
After  summer  blooms  have  faded. 
Till  He  gathers  them  to  rest 


INTO  THE  EVENING. 


INTO  THE  EVENING. 

Out  from  the  morning  of  childhood, 

With  all  of  its  innocent  grace; 

Out  from  the  forenoon  of  girlhood, 

Where  sunshine  and  joy  came  apace; 

Out  from  the  noon  of  the  matron, 

With  cares  that  seem  stern  and  yet  blest — 

Into  the  shadows  of  evening, 

I’m  gliding  with  oars  all  at  rest. 

Pleasures  I’m  leaving  are  transient — 

Behind  are  the  breakers  so  bold ; 

Sunshine  and  beauty  are  resting 
On  glaciers  of  danger  untold. 

Life’s  saddest  grief  is  behind  me 

With  many  fond  joys,  too,  most  blest; 

Evening’s  calm  zephyrs  before  me, 

Are  whisperings  of  heavenly  rest. 

Skies  overhead  smile  upon  me 

The  same  tender  radiance  of  yore; 

Flowers  just  as  rich  in  their  blooming 
Still  nod  at  my  barque  from  the  shore. 

Into  the  evening,  while  drifting, 

I take  with  me  all  that  is  blest; 

Leave  the  long  day,  with  its  toiling, 

For  evening’s  calm,  glorified  rest, 


8 


to6 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


IN  THE  MOONLIGHT. 

Ah,  the  mellow,  silver  moonlight 
Falling  on  her  dream-lit  face. 
Lighted  eyes  of  witching  beauty 
With  the  light  of  love’s  own  grace. 
Long  we  lingered  in  the  evening. 
And  all  life  seemed  free  of  care. 
While  the  star-beams  wove  around  us 
Spells  of  love’s  own  magic  there. 


On  her  cheeks  the  roses  blossomed. 
Paler  far  than  in  the  day; 

Loving  light  fell  on  her  forehead 
In  the  moon’s  soft,  shining  ray. 
Like  a tender  dream  of  beauty. 
Every  smile  that  shone  on  me — 

I could  linger  in  the  moonlight 
Through  all  love’s  eternity. 


Tender  rays  upon  her  tresses. 

Soft  and  silken  their  beam. 

Seemed  a fairy  veil  that  from  us 
Hid  the  future  like  a dream; 

Dainty  fingers  fair  and  waxen. 

Gave  to  mine  their  thrills  of  bliss. 
While  her  lips  my  own  in  rapture 
Pressed  love’s  first  and  fondest  kiss. 


GOOD-BYE. 


107 


Years  have  passed.  Again  I linger 
’Neath  the  moon-beams  sad  and  lone, 
While  the  breezes  in  the  branches 
Like  the  restless  spirits  moan; 

And  the  fairies  of  the  moonlight 
Weave  their  dewy  blossoms  sweet, 

In  the  grasses  o’er  a dear  one 
Who  lies  sleeping  at  my  feet. 


GOOD-BYE. 

O kisses  fond  that  fall  on  brow  and  hair 
From  loving  lips  that  give  a tender  thrill! 

How  from  the  heart  flows  out  all  grief  and  care, 
And  with  love’s  sunshine  all  its  chambers  fill; 

How  like  a dream  the  blissful  moments  fly ; 

How  all  the  thoughts  of  weariness  depart. 

And  future  years  of  waiting  seem  to  lie 

O’er  spread  with  summer  sunshine  in  the  heart! 

But  ah!  they  fly;  and  at  the  last,  my  own, 

Your  trembling,  clinging  lips  press  mine  and  sigh; 

And  that  is  all — but  the  long,  long  days  alone, 

To  ponder  o’er  that  one  sad  word,  “Good-bye.” 

Yea,  we  have  planned  to  meet  again;  and  yet 
He  only  knows  how  long  the  years  may  be; 

The  days  of  woe  we  never  may  forget, 

Until  each  other’s  sipile  again  we  see. 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


It  may  be  not  till  cruel  time  shall  leave 

II is  withering  frost  on  cheek,  and  hair,  and  brow 
Or  one  of  us  may  walk  alone  to  grieve 
The  other  gone.  I cannot  think  it  now! 

O love,  how  near  a Heaven  ’twould  seem  below — 
Methinks  that  we  could  e’en  forget  to  sigh — 

If  in  this  world  our  hearts  could  only  know. 

We  never  need  to  say  again  “Good-bye!” 


A FABLE. 

A glad  nightingale  Hew  to  the  brook’s  stony  bed. 

And  sang  out  his  thanks  for  a drink. 

While  an  old  froggie  listened  and  nodded  his  head. 

As  he  sunned  his  green  coat  on  the  brink. 

And  he  spake  to  the  bird:  “I  have  heard  you  oft,  lad. 
Ami  I think  your  style  really  fine; 

That  you  sing  but  one  song,  now  is  surely  too  bad, 

I will  gladly  teach  you  some  of  mine.” 

“I  am  old  in  the  craft,  and  composed,  you  have  heard. 
Many  songs  of  the  meadows  and  brooks. 

’Tis  a pity  your  voice — that  is  rare  for  a bird — 

Should  be  left  like  an  uncultured  rook’s. 

In  the  world  where  you  live,  you’d  win  glory  I ween. 
If  your  tone  was  more  practiced  and  clear; 

I will  sing  you  a song,  and  your  taste  is  so  keen. 

You  will  be  an  apt  scholar,  my  dear.” 


MISMEASURED. 


109 


So  he  croaked,  and  he  croaked,  and  he  cro-o-o-oaked. 
Such  a horrible  tune  out  of  time; 

And  the  nightingale  listened,  not  even  provoked 
Into  smiles  at  the  jumbling  rhyme. 

And  when  froggie  was  through,  the  wise  nightingale  said, 
“My  dear  friend,  ’tis  my  deepest  regret 
That  the  world  is  too  ignorant,  far  too  unbred  / 

Your  rare  style  to  appreciate  yet. 

“They  would  laugh  at  my  efforts  to  imitate  you; 

They  would  call  me  an  upstart — a fraud. 

Your  remarkable  songs,  I lament  there  are  few 
Who  would,  sir,  understand  and  applaud;” 

So  off  to  the  forest  he  flew,  and  ne’er  seemed 
To  think  frog  such  an  ignorant  boor 
For  the  kindness  intended,  while  froggie  esteemed 
Him — “a  sensible  fellow,  that’s  sure.” 


MISMEASURED. 

You  have  indeed  grown  weary  soon. 
That  you  should  come  and  kneel 
Here  at  my  feet,  and  ask  my  love 
And  life,  through  woe  or  weal. 

What  was  the  fault  of  that  fair  face? 

Her  lips  were  sweetness’  own. 

Her  brow  was  fair  as  was  her  heart, 
Her  eyes  with  fondness  shone. 


I lO 


LKISURli  HOUR  rOEMS. 


She  loved  you  well,  I truly  know, 

Her  life  was  purity; 

And  ere  I answer  you  I’d  learn 
Whose  e’er  the  fault  could  be. 

Your  lips  are  closed.  Hast  lightly  prized 
The  heart  that  was  all  thine; 

And  ask  to  while  the  hours  away 
The  deepest  love  of  mine? 

Are  you  a god  that  you  should  think 
We  all  must  how,  and  sigh. 

And  do  you  honor  if  you  pause 
To  smile,  and  then  jDass  by? 

Nay,  go!  you  tread  ujoon  a heart — 

A pure  and  precious  thing. 

Sooner  th'an  taste  your  cruel  lips 
I’d  meet  a viper’s  sting. 

If  I have  touched  a deeper  chord 
Then  you  before  ere  knew. 

You’ll  only  feel  the  bitter  pang 
You  gave  a heart  more  true. 


If  not.  I’ll  pray  you’ll  sometime  know 
How  near  the  world  above — 

How  much  beyond  your  measuring — 
Is  woman’s  earnest  love. 


TRUE  UNTO  DEATH. 


TRUE  UNTO  DEATH. 

“True  unto  death,”  the  maiden  whisjDered, 
“True  till  death,”  he  made  reply; 

And  with  lingering  caresses 

And  fond  vows,  he  said,  “Good-bye.” 
She  within  the  rose-wreathed  cottage. 
There  to  wait  and  dream  and  j^ray; 

He  to  toil  for  wealth  and  honor. 

In  the  city’s  crowded  way. 

“True  unto  death,”  the  words  were  spoken. 
At  the  altar  high  and  grand. 

He  had  laurels  on  his  forehead. 

She  had  treasures  in  her  hand. 

Not  the  little  cottage  maiden. 

But  a richer,  fairer  love — 

Strange  he  trembled  at  the  echoes 
In  the  arches  high  above. 

“True  unto  death,”  she  faintly  uttered. 
Tenderly  as  years  before 
Whispered  low  the  hopeful  maiden 
Where  the  roses  climbed  the  door. 
Spoken  while  the  lips  grew  whiter, 

Gasped  with  weary,  fainting  breath. 

And  the  marble  headstone  o’er  her 
Bears  the  words,  “True  unto  death.” 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


DELIRIUM. 

Great  Goil,  what  curse  hangs  over  me.? 

\\  Iiat  have  I clone  that  this  dark  ban 
Is  on  my  life?  Why  hast  thou  drawn 
The  black  cowl  of  unreason  o’er 
My  brain,  and  left  it  wilder  than 
A murderer’s,  when  on  the  scaffold  placed? 

0 it  were  sweet  to  die.  Methinks 

E’en  death’s  ice-clasp  would  grateful  seem. 
Hut  ah,  to  dread  and  feel  this  deep 
Wild  terror  creeping  over  sense 
And  soul,  and  know  I’m  growing  mad! 

Who  has  not  felt  the  demon’s  grasp 
Upon  the  heart  in  midnight  dreams; 

And  felt  the  agony  of  gloom 
And  maddest  terror?  O it  is 
Like  this  to  crowd  a thousand  years 
Of  horror  in  one  brief,  short  hour. 

The  sunbeam’s  quivering  flash  e’en  throws 
O’er  heart  and  brain  a horrid  cast, 

ITnknown  and  undefined.  Sweet  smiles. 
And  tender  words  from  loving  lips. 

Strike  hate  unto  my  soul,  and  dark 
Designs  burn  fierce  like  altar  fires 
Of  Mona  down  into  my  brain, 

That  only  blood  can  sate.  E’en  when 

1 call  on  God  for  mercy  and 
Deliverance,  an  echo  wakes 


DELIRIUM. 


That  shrieks  my  voice  a thousand  times, 
Then  hurls  it  back  within  my  soul 
In  hissing  curses,  fierce  and  wild. 

How  every  sound  seems  changed  to  howls 
And  shrieks  and  groans,  like  those  within 
The  depths  of  flaming  Hades.  How 
Each  nerve  and  sinew  thrills  with  mad. 
Mad  horror,  as  the  demons  crowd 
Around  with  ghastly  forms,  and  stare 
With  eyes  of  fire,  that  fiercely  burn 
Within  their  sockets  deep;  and  stand 
With  grinning  mouths  and  lolling  tongues. 
And  point  their  flaming  brands  toward 
My  shrinking  form  with  bony  hands 
Outstretched  to  grapple  me.  And  how 
The  cursing  devils  dance  and  laugh. 

And  mimic  at  my  awful  fear. 

O God.  The  murd’rer’s  form  bent  o’er 
My  couch  with  glitt’ring  blade  upraised 
At  midnight  hour,  is  naught.  Let  in 
The  savage  beasts  to  feed  upon 
My  form,  and  let  me  feel  their  teeth 
Upon  my  flesh;  their  red  hot  tongues 
That  lap  my  blood;  their  cruel  claws 
That  rend  my  bones  asunder.  Aye, 

Let  loose  the  demons  hideous 
Of  earth  and  hell  on  me,  be  they 
In  human  garb  but  clothed,  and  I 
Will  welcome  them.  But  oh,  great  God, 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


II4 


Deliver  me  from  out  the  arms 
Of  those  dread  imps  of  darkness,  who 
Have  neither  form  nor  shape  nor  life 
Nor  being.  Those  mad,  phantom  thoughts 
And  fears  and  terrors  which  e’er  reign 
In  havoc  wild,  when  reason  but 
Unchains  them  in  the  human  mind. 


ONLY  A NEWS-BOY. 

It’s  only  a news-boy  who’s  crushed  in  the  street. 

Trampled  to  death  on  the  stones  ’neath  the  iron-shod  feet. 
Just  a news-boy,  half-starved,  who  is  ragged  and  wan. 

And  a lordly  vmice  haughtily  shouts:  “Man,  drive  on!” 

Aye,  drive  on,  drive  ye  on  with  your  gay,  prancing  steeds. 
From  the  pitiful  wail  of  a fond  heart  that  bleeds — 

From  the  form  you  have  crushed  ’neath  the  wheels  like  a toy 
From  the  white,  haunting  face  of  the  dying  news-boy! 

And  drive  on,  lest  the  fond  mother’s  curses  so  wild 
Should  fall  on  your  proud  ears  as  she  bends  o’er  her  child. 
Fiercely  kissing  the  blood  and  the  dust  from  the  face. 
Where  the  sharp,  cruel  hoof  of  your  steed  left  its  trace. 

Drive  ye  on  to  the  door  of  your  palace  so  grand. 

And  there  proudly  smile  down  where  your  little  ones  stand; 
Ha!  you  start  at  the  face  that  is  pallid  and  cold. 

As  it  stares  from  your  curtain’s  rich,  velvety  fold. 


SERENADE  TO  MORNING. 


“5 


You  may  drive  to  the  steps  of  yon  edifice  high, 

Where  you  worship  the  steeple  that  points  to  the  sky: 

Do  ye  shrink  from  the  face  of  the  Christ-mother  mild, 

Who  seems  kissing  the  lips  of  a dear,  dying  child? 

And  drive  on,  past  the  portals  of  death — if  you  may. 

With  your  fiery  steeds  and  your  equipage  gay:  / 

Ha!  how  strange  that  the  form  in  its  dust-begrimmed  gore. 
Should  still  haunt  your  proud  presence,  e’en  here  at  death’s 
door. 

But  let  angels  adjudge,  who  so  wistfully  wait 
For  each  one  who  is  seeking  the  pure,  pearly  gate. 

Through  which  you  will  drive  if  you  can — if  you  can: 

Let  the  angels  be  judges,  not  man — nay,  not  man. 


SERENADE  TO  MORNING. 

The  Quail’s  first  cry  the  winds  take  up. 
And  shouting  call,  “Wake  up!  wake  up!” 
Until  the  woodland  choir  starts 
A chorus  from  a thousand  hearts. 

The  wild  Bee’s  wake  with  busy  hum. 

As  Partridge  beats  his  martial  drum; 

The  Mock-Bird  strikes  a bugle  note. 
Oriole  trills  to  clear  his  throat. 

The  Swallow  chatters  on  the  wall. 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


I l6 


And  Phcube  pipes  her  plaintive  call; 
Ni<rhtingale  sings  her  song  forlorn, 

The  old  owl  toots  his  broken  horn; 

The  Rook  croaks  out  his  saucy  say, 

The  Blackbirds  sing  a roundelay; 

As  loudly  calls  the  Chanticleer, 

And  Bullfrogs’  bass  is  free  of  fear; 

The  Cricket  chirps,  the  Cattle  low. 

While  Ring-dove  sings  her  song  of  woe.  . 

The  Thrush  springs  up  with  joyous  shout, 
15oholink’s  trumpet  notes  peal  out. 

The  Lark  rings  forth  his  clarion  free. 

The  Jay-bird  joins  the  reveille — 

The  brook  that  chants  the  whole  day  long. 
Greets  then  the  morn  with  sweeter  song. 

The  twittering  Wrens,  the  gay  Cuckoo, 

All  help  to  drown  the  Pigeon’s  coo; 

The  Robins  chirp,  the  Martins  pi^^e, 

And  faintly  cries  the  watchful  Snipe; 

And  echoes  wake  that  shout  on  high. 

Until  the  call  has  reached  the  sky. 

Then  night  her  robes  of  darkness  folds,  .• 
And  morning  dons  a dress  of  gold ; 

And  o’er  the  hills  and  tree-tops  tall 
Burst  floods  of  sunshine  over  all. 

And  children  from  the  windows  peer. 

With  shouts  of  joy  that  morn  is  here. 


THE  HUNGERING. 


117 


THE  HUNGERING. 

O,  thei’e  are  hungering  mouths! 

The  world  is  full  of  money; 

And  cheeks  are  spare  and  pale 
Which  should  be  fair  and  sunny. 

And  there  are  starving  hearts 
In  many  a fairy  palace. 

For  grief  oft  hides  in  smiles 
That  lurk  above  the  chalice. 

The  forms  that  toil  all  day 

Find  no  rest  from  their  aching, 
And  hearts  that  hungering  j^ine 
Are  near,  oft  times,  to  breaking. 

Aye,  there  are  starving  mouths; 

The  world  is  full  of  wrongings; 
And  there  are  starving  hearts. 

For  souls  are  full  of  longings. 

Men  feed  the  weeping  ones, 

A crust  will  soothe  their  sorrow. 
Pity,  O God,  the  souls 

That  find  no  rest  to-morrow. 


iiS 


LEISURK  HOUR  POEMS. 


DREAMERS. 

O dreamers  of  life’s  morning  time, 
Who  sleep  the  hours  away, 

No  shadows  dread 
Creep  round  thy  bed — 

Thy  thoughts  are  all  of  play. 
Sleep  on, 

Dream  on, 

That  thy  pure  bliss 
May  linger  long,  we  pray. 

O dreamers  of  life’s  blissful  time. 
The  world  in  bright  array 
Seems  deck’d  to  thee. 

And  fair  to  see. 

And  filled  with  pleasures  gay. 
Dream  on. 

Dream  on. 

Sad  hours  will  come; 

O love  then,  while  ye  may. 

O dreamers  of  life’s  even  time. 
With  locks  of  silver  grey. 

And  brows  which  care 
Has  left  still  fair. 

Aye,  dream  while  yet  ye  stay. 
Dream  on. 

Dream  on. 

Live  love’s  time  o’er. 

Till  fades  earth’s  tend’rest  ray. 


DRIFT-WOOD. 


II9 


O dreamers  of  earth’s  resting  time, 
So  weary  of  life’s  way, 

How  calm  and  blest. 

Doth  seem  thy  rest, 

F rom  cares  of  stern  to-day. 

Sleep  on. 

Dream  on. 

Nor  wake  until 

Thy  dreams  come  true  for  aye! 


DRIFT-WOOD. 

Adown  the  stream  the  drift-wood  glides. 
Borne  on  by  ever  changing  tides; 

Now  slow,  now  swift,  tossed  o’er  and  o’er. 
Then  beat  against  the  rocky  shore; 

Here  smoothly  borne  with  rapid  might. 
There,  tossed  about  by  billows  white. 

And  swirled  beneath  the  angiy  main 
A moment,  but  to  rise  again; 

Now  shining  in  the  sun’s  clear  ray. 

Then  darkening  ’neath  the  clouds  of  grey. 

See  yon  the  wreck  of  some  great  mast. 
With  ’round  her  those  of  humbler  cast; 
And  of  some  stately  castle  proud 
Here  glides  a beam  in  moss-green  shroud ; 


120 


LlilSURK  HOUR  POEMS. 


While  there,  a log  of  some  rude  home 
Is  cast  amid  the  waves  to  roam. 

And  this  is  but  a new  built  spar, 

That,  water-soaked  with  many  a scar. 
Among  yon  wrecks,  uncouth  and  bare, 

See,  clings  a water-lily  there. 

As  if  she  owned  some  saving  grace 
To  guide  them  to  a resting  place. 

•And  thus  adown  the  stream  they  go. 

The  new  and  old,  the  high  and  low; 

Until  within  some  quiet  bay, 

They’re  driven  there  to  rest  for  aye. 

So  down  the  stream  of  life  we  glide, 

J3ut  drift-wood  on  a changing  tide; 

The  sun  shines  over  head  to-day. 
To-morrow  may  be  damp  and  grey. 

Now  swift  we  glide,  now  slow,  and  sigh 
As  some  loved  face  goes  hurrying  by; 

Now  swirled  beneath  the  treacherous  wave 
We  sink  and  rise  with  spirits  brave; 

Then  beat  against  the  rocks  of  woe. 

And  tossed  by  tempests  to  and  fro. 

Adown  the  tide  we  float  among 
The  gay,  the  sad,  the  old,  the  young, 

With  those  of  care,  and  sin,  and  shame. 
And  those  of  pride,  and  wealth,  and  fame; 
With  those  we  love  and  those  we  hate. 
We’re  hurried  on  by  tides  of  fate. 


SILVER  HAIR. 


I2I 


The  sunny  hours  oft  end  in  clouds, 
The  fairest  forms  the  wave  enshrouds; 
The  joys  we  fain  would  keep  to-day 
The  waters  cruel  hide  away; 

Except,  perhaps,  the  one  pale  bloom 
Of  hope,  that  watches  to  the  tomb. 

At  last,  within  the  harbor  bar. 

Whither  we  drift  from  near  or  far. 

We  sink  into  a calm  so  blest — 

God,  only  God,  doth  know  the  rest. 


SILVER  HAIR. 

Ah,  blessings  on  the  tresses  sere. 

That  fade  and  whiten  every  year. 

Fade  while  they  near  the  bright  gateway 
Of  earth’s  last  sunset.  Day  by  day 
We  sit  and  watch  the  dear  hands  fold 
Of  our  fond  loved  ones,  growing  old. 

And  kiss  the  care-lined  forehead  where 
Press  richest  crowns  of  silver  hair. 

Impatient  words  that  haunt  us  yet. 

With  wrongs  we’ve  done  our  hearts  doth  fret 

With  sorrow  deep,  for  who  can  say 

How  much  they’ve  changed  these  locks  to  grey. 


9 


123 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


O days  of  joy  we  would  erase 
If  these  sad  wrongs  we  could  efface, 

As  we  caress  the  marks  of  care 
And  smooth  the  threads  of  silver  hair. 

Ah,  sliver  hair,  so  touched  by  time! 

As  every  jjassing  bell  doth  chime. 

So  like  the  veil  the  fairies  furl, 

As  white  as  sea-foam,  pure  as  pearl. 

So  changed  by  toil  and  care  of  years. 
So  changed  by  sacrifice  and  tears. 

As  rich  as  crowns  the  bri  ght  ones  wear. 
Ah,  how  we  love  the  silver  hair! 


WRECKS. 

We  stood  on  the  sea-shore  in  silence,  we  two. 

The  winds  and  the  wild  waves  were  singing 
A song  that  was  free, 

And  so  full  of  glee 
That  it  fell  on  the  air  with  a ringing. 

The  wild  surges  flashed  in  the  golden  sunlight. 
Their  heads  high  to  heaven  were  lifting, 
While  out  on  the  tide. 

With  no  hand  to  guide, 

Many  wrecks  were  there,  helplessly  drifting. 


WRECKS. 


123 


A spar  from  the  wrecks  the  waves  brought  to  our  feet, 
Then  laughed  at  our  woe  and  retreated; 

The  echo  of  pain 
Beat  oft  and  again, 

Which  the  rocks  and  the  fierce  winds  repeated. 

Ah,  well  did  they  know  that  the  wreck  was  our  own! 
Of  ho^Des  we  had  trusted  in  gladness. 

To  billows  of  blue 
That  promised  so  true 
To  bring  home  to  us  nothing  of  sadness. 

But  somewhere  we  knew  in  the  pitiless  deep 

Our  hopes,  fond  and  precious  were  lying, 

, Our  hearts  made  no  groan. 

Too  bitter  to  moan. 

We  left  them  in  mockery  crying. 


We  parted  in  silence.  Our  paths  led  apart. 

But  our  li]Ds  gave  no  token  of  sorrow. 

The  waves  danced  in  glee  * 

O’er  the  wreck,  and  we 
Were  left  only  our  trust  in  to-morrow. 

For  He  who  once  silenced  the  grim,  mocking  deep. 
Will  turn  aside  billows  affrighted. 

And  from  their  sad  graves 
Deep  under  the  waves. 

He  will  resurrect  hopes  that  were  blighted. 


124 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


GONE  ASTRAY. 

Out  in  the  world  my  boy  is  gone — 

The  world  of  crime  and  sin; 

With  no  kind  hand  to  lead  him  back, 

No  door  to  take  him  in. 

Gone  from  the  hearts  that  love  him  so; 

From  home  he’s  turned  away, 

From  mother’s  tender  guiding  care. 

My  boy  has  gone  astray. 

And  he  may  want  a crust  of  bread. 

May  sip  the  cup  of  woe. 

May  fall  in  paths  of  bitter  sin. 

And  I may  never  know. 

And  I can  only  sit  and  weep — 

In  anguish  kneel  and  pray. 

That  Heaven  will  guide  the  wandering  feet 
Of  him  who’s  gone  astray 

O wayward  feet  that  I have  kissed — 

My  heart  doth  sadly  yearn 
To  guide  them  now;  and  blesses  them 
In  what  paths  they  may  turn. 

Let  me  believe  a mother’s  j^rayers 
May  light  my  wanderer’s  way. 

And  trust  His  hand  will  Heavenward  guide 
My  boy  who’s  gone  astray. 


ODE  TO  TIME. 


125 


ODE  TO  TIME. 

You  think  I am  fast  growing  old,  Father  Time, 

My  cheeks  you  have  furrowed  with  care; 

My  fingers  are  bony  and  shrunken  with  toil. 

And  threaded  with  silver  my  hair; 

My  shoulders  bend  low  ’neath  the  burdens  of  life. 

My  form  trembles  under  their  weight. 

My  limbs  they  are  palsied  and  weak.  Father  Time, 
And  feeble  and  slow  is  my  gait. 

You  think,  sir,  perhaps  you  are  making  me  old. 

You’re  cheating  yourself  with  the  thought; 

You’ve  stolen  the  rose  from  my  once  blooming  cheek. 
And  deep,  shriveled  furrows  have  brought. 

You  laugh  at  the  wrecks  that  you  make,  Father  Time, 
And  deem  it  but  pleasure  to  steal 

All  things  that  are  beautiful,  tender  and  bright. 

And  make  them  your  icy  hand  feel. 

But  you  cheat  yourself  when  you  think,  Father  Time, 
Your  changes  are  making  me  old; 

Your  grip  on  my  life-line  can  never  bring  fear — 

My  pleasures  you  never  can  hold ; 

My  heart,  sir,  will  ever  be  merry  and  young. 

My  love-lamp  will  ever  be  bright; 

You  never  can  take  from  my  eyes.  Father  Time, 

Their  dear,  youthful  vision  of  light. 


126 


Leisure  hour  poems. 


And  I defy  all  of  your  changes,  Old  Time, 

For  I have  no  terror  of  thee, 

The  pitiful  sight  of  your  sad,  heartless  wrecks. 
Can  never  hring  fear  unto  me. 

My  face  may  be  furrowed,  my  form  may  he  bent. 
My  tresses  he  plundered  of  gold, 

Rut  farther  than  this,  sir,  your  power  is  lost — 

My  heart’s  youth  will  never  grow  old. 


MY  CHILDHOOD  HOME. 

I’ve  strayed  down  halls  of  beauty. 
That  seemed  like  visions  sweet. 
With  gold  and  silken  hangings 
And  velvet  ’neath  my  feet. 

And  on  each  side  the  mirrors 
Caught  up  the  pomp  and  show. 
And  over  all  the  gas-light 

Beamed  with  its  softest  glow. 


’Twas  like  a fairy  palace. 

But  yet,  another  place 
Doth  outshine  all  these  glories 
With  its  fair,  rustic-grace; 

No  rare  lace  decks  the  window. 
But  humble  scenes,  the  wall, 
And  richer  far  than  gas-light. 
The  love  that  beams  o’er  all. 


MY  CHILDHOOD  HOME. 


127 


The  chime  of  loving  voices 
Yet  echo  in  my  ear, 

With  accent  fond  and  tender, 

I’ve  listened  oft  to  hear. 

I smile  again  at  praises 
I heard  with  rare  delight. 

And  live  again  the  friendships 

That  make  life  seem  more  bright. 

But  memory  wanders  ever 
To  fonder  words  I know 
That  never  stoop  to  flatter. 

But  ah,  I love  them  so; 

And  dearer  far  the  praises 
From  lips  now  growing  old. 
Than  wealth  of  fame  or  honor, 

Or  treasure  caves  of  gold. 

I’ve  sat  in  galleries  crowded. 

In  bright,  bewildering  throngs. 
In  rapture  I have  listened 
To  orchestras  and  songs. 

That  seemed  so  like  to  Heaven’s, 
My  soul  was  borne  away 
To  realms  of  pure  Ely  si  an, 

And  seemed  with  joy  astray. 

But  ah,  when  I have  wakened, 

I list  to  sweeter  strains 
I heard  far  back  in  childhood. 

And  catch  the  fond  refrains 


128 


LEISURE  HOUR  1‘OEMS. 


or  mother’s  songs  at  twilight, 

When  day  was  growing  dim, 

And  breezes  in  the  tree-tops 
Echoed  the  evening  hymn. 

I’ve  gazed  on  rare  old  paintings 
Traced  by  a master’s  hand; 

Have  wandered  out  of  being 
Amidst  the  scenery  grand; 

I’ve  roved  the  mount  and  meadow. 
And  roamed  o’er  ruins  grey. 

Have  dreamed  till  brain  was  aching. 
And  lingering,  turned  away. 

But  there  are  precious  pictures 
I know  of,  rarer  still; 

Pictures  of  mead  and  forest. 

Where  I have  roamed  at  will. 
Pictures  of  home  in  love-land. 

That  hold  the  heart  in  thrall. 
Painted  in  memory,  ever 
Perfect,  whate’er  befall. 

O precious  home  of  childhood, 

’Mid  all  life’s  sweets  and  woe. 
Though  other  homes  are  richer. 
Thou  art  the  best  below; 

Thy  voices,  songs,  and  pictures. 

May  be  so  humble,  yet 
Of  all  earth’s  rarer  scenes,  ye 
Are  last  that  we  forget. 


BY-PLA\S. 


129 


BY-PLAYS. 

Ah,  how  nice  ’tis  alone  ’mid  the  flowers, 

And  rippling  fountains  that  seem 
Like  the  murmuring  brooklets,  the  summer 
We  lived  in  that  enchanting  dream. 

You  remember  that  time  in  the  country? 

How  sweet  was  the  birds’  tender  air; 

And  those  walks  in  the  moonlight  delicious, 

0 wasn’t  that  a love-dream  most  rare? 

And  we  parted,  you  know,  by  the  brooklet. 

It’s  song  I remember  e’en  yet. 

How  it  mocked  our  sad  hearts  when  at  parting 

1 kissed  you.  You  do  not  forget? 

But  ah  me,  the  world  stepped  between  us; 

You  lingered  in  Europe,  while  I 
Sadly  dreamed  o’er  the  days  of  that  summer. 
And  marked  every  one  with  a sigh. 

You  are  pale.  Shall  we  go  to  the  ball-room? 

But  hush!  there  are  voices  anear; 

I hope  that  no  gossip  o’erheard  us. 

The  folly  might  cost  us  too  dear. 

Ha!  see  yonder  affecting  confession; 

The  lady’s  in  tears  on  my  life — 

And  the  man — I declare!  ’tis  your  husband. 
The  lady — Great  God!  is  my  wife! 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


SOONER  OR  LATER. 

Ah,  sooner  or  later,  our  heart’s  fondest  trust 
Will  fall  in  decay  or  will  sink  into  dust. 

The  hopes  that  are  fairest  dissolve  like  the  clouds. 
And  earth’s  rarest  treasures  arc  folded  in  shrouds. 

The  pleasures  that  first  to  our  gazing  look  fair. 

E’er  turn  as  we  greet  them  to  giants  of  care. 

And  dreams  that  seem  ever  too  bright  to  decay, 

Like  wills-o’-the-wisp,  will  hut  lead  us  astray. 

Aye,  sooner  or  later,  we  find,  and  we  grieve. 

That  friends  we  most  trusted  have  stooped  to  deceive; 
And  beauty,  which  fame  o’er  our  gay  vision  shed. 

Has  faded  like  blooms  in  the  hands  of  the  dead. 

The  cup  of  sweet  wine  we  so  thought  to  have  earned 
To  bitterest  waters  of  ^larah  has  turned; 

And  apples  of  love  that  we  plucked  with  such  greed. 
Have  proved  to  be  apples  of  Sodom  indeed. 

So  sooner  or  later  the  visions  most  sweet 
Will  sink  to  the  level  of  dust  in  the  street; 

And  pleasures  will  mock  us,  and  friends  will  all  fail. 
E’en  love  will  deceive  us,  and  riches  will  pale; 

And  all  that  we  learn  in  this  sad  life  of  pain 
And  longing  and  sorrow,  is — life  is  all  vain, 

’Less  we  in  humility  kiss  the  stern  rod. 

And  learn  all  is  loveless  and  faithless,  but  God. 


RECOMPENSE. 


I3I 


RECOMPENSE. 

For  every  pain,  and  ill,  and  woe. 

And  grief,  our  spirits  ever  know. 

For  every  wish  unsatisfied. 

For  every  joy  we  are  denied. 

We  all  shall  find  a recompense. 

I do  not  know  how  long  may  be 
The  hours  wherein  no  joy  I see; 

I do  not  know  how  dark  the  clouds 
May  frown,  that  doth  my  patTi  enshroud, 

I only  know  that  He  is  kind. 

And  I my  recompense  shall  find. 

I know  not  even  in  what  way 
My  joy  will  come.  Mayhap  this  day 
He’ll  smile  on  me.  It  may  be  years 
Will  pass  in  shadows  and  in  tears — 

My  soul  perhaps  be  borne  ahence 
Ere  I shall  find  my  recompense. 

Some  where,  some  time — if  soon  or  late — 
I know  me  not.  I only  wait 
Till  He  shall  bid  my  burdens  fall. 

And  dry  my  tears  and  raise  the  pall ; 

Then  shall  I find  my  recompense. 


*32 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


AN  ANSWER. 

Can  you  give  me  a love  that  is  deep, 

And  is  pure; 

That  is  kind,  grand  and  fond,  and  is  strong 
To  endure? 

Can  you  give  me  a heart  that  is  just 
And  is  free. 

And  is  willing  to  share  all  its  joys. 

Sir,  with  me? 

Can  you  give  me  a hand  that  is  kind — 

That  in  scorn 

Hath  not  pointed  to  one  led  astray 
And  forlorn? 

Can  you  give  me  the  past  with  no  blush. 
Sir,  of  shame. 

And  the  years  that  have  left  you  no 
Unholy  aim? 

Can  3’ou  give  me  a love,  and  a heart 
Just  as  true. 

And  a life  and  a name,  fair  as  those 
I give  3'ou? 

If  3'ou  answer  me  yea,  it  is  well. 

By  your  side 

I will  walk  with  true  joy,  though  the  world 
May  deride. 


IN  THE  CORN. 


133 


But  if  not,  you  may  go,  for  the  gift 
Is  too  small 

That  you  offer  me,  sir,  in  return 
For  my  all. 


IN  THE  CORN. 

Through  the  field  in  sunny  seed  time. 

Pass  a merry  youthful  pair. 

She  with  fair  hands  drops  the  kernels, 

He  with  strong  hands  plants  them  there. 

Over  head,  with  noisy  flutter. 

Flits  a winged  saucy  wight. 

Startling  maid  and  youth  who  loiter 
In  the  warmth  of  May  sunlight. 

Sings  he  loudly,  and  the  echoes 
Spread  the  song  in  saucy  trick; 

“Dig  a hole,  dig  a hole. 

Drop  it  in,  drop  it  in. 

Cover  it  up,  cover  it  up. 

Quick,  quick,  quick!” 

Summer  light  falls  soft  and  mellow 
O’er  the  tasseled  field,  and  through 

Rustling  corn,  the  merry  maiden. 

Walks  beside  the  lover  true. 


134 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


Darting  with  a noisy  flutter, 
From  the  silky  corn  among — 
Where  in  hiding  he  had  rested, 
’Rose  the  bird  of  saucy  tongue. 


And  he  shouts  above  tlie  rustle. 

To  the  lover  sick  in  heart: 

“Tell  your  love,  tell  your  love. 
She’ll  believe,  she’ll  believe. 
Kiss  her  now,  kiss  her  now. 
Quick,  quick,  quick!” 


Autumn  winds  caught  up  the  laughter 
Of  the  gleaners  in  the  corn. 

With  the  mirth  of  merry  maiden, 

And  the  sigh  of  youth  forlorn. 

As  she  dances  ’mid  the  buskers. 

In  her  hand  the  ear  of  red. 

To  the  jealous,  pining  lover, 

Shouts  the  saucy  bird  o’erhead: 

Sings  he  wisely,  ah,  how  wisely! 

(How  could  bird  learn  such  a trick?) 
“Build  a house,  build  a house. 

Put  her  in,  put  her  in. 

Shut  the  door,  shut  the  door. 
Quick,  quick,  quick!” 


INFATUATION. 


135 


INFATUATION. 

I care  me  not  how  he  hath  gazed 
In  brighter  eyes  than  mine; 

If  he  has  praised,  or  worshiped  low 
Before  a fairer  shrine. 

I care  me  not  how  other  lips 
His  own  in  passion  may 

Have  fondly  pressed  and  pressed  again, 
Since  he  is  mine  to-day. 

I care  me  not  that  he  hath  heard 
A voice  of  sweetest  tone. 

That  filled  his  heart  with  rapture. 
Though  the  voice  was  not  my  own. 

I only  feel  upon  my  face 
Love’s  silent,  blissful  ray. 

And  feel  his  clasp  ujDon  my  hand. 

And  know  he’s  mine  to-day. 

To-morrow,'in  our  sober  sense. 

This  blissful  day  may  seem 

Like  to  some  midnight  trance  of  bliss, 
*A  trance  within  a dream. 

To-morrow  we  may  hardly  know 
Love’s  idol  turned  to  clay, 

I have  no  fear  of  future' tears 
If  he  is  mine  to-day. 


LEISUKE  HOUR  POEMS. 


136 


MINE  OWN. 


0 love,  I hold  your  pale,  pale  hands 
That  give  no  clasp  to  mine, 

And  smooth  the  marble  brow  where  rests 
The  light  of  Heaven  divine. 

1 gaze  upon  the  fast  shut  eyes, 

And  kiss  in  tenderness 

The  chilling  lips,  that  ne’er  on  earth 
Will  wake  to  my  caress. 

Dear  one,  I cannot  think  you  lie 
In  death’s  stern,  icy  fold. 

Your  life  has  passed  far  out  the  west 
With  all  its  sunset  gold. 

And  left  my  future  years  so  dark 
And  sad  and  drear  with  pain. 

It  seems  no  morning  e’er  can  bring 
The  sunshine  back  again. 


Yet  mayhap  after  all  ’tis  well  — 

This  bitter,  bitter  woe — 

Should  we  have  lived  as  some  do,  love. 

This  were  far  best  I know — 

Live  as  some  do  whose  lives  and  loves 
Have  drifted  far  apart. 

Whose  homes  are  tombs,  where  coffined  lies 
The  love  of  each  proud  heart; 


THE  HOSPITAL  NURSE. 


Where  whited  walls  like  sepulchers 
Shine  out  their  ghostly  light, 

And  every  curtain  seems  a pall 
Dark  as  the  deepest  night. 

I think  of  these  and  press  your  lips, 
And  check  the  sobbing  moan, 

For  oh,  dear  one,  let  come  what  may. 
Your  love  is  all  my  own. 


THE  HOSPITAL  NURSE. 

A noble  face,  did  you  say,  friend? 
Aye,  she  was  noble,  too,  • 

And  if  you  care  to  hear  the  tale. 

I’ll  gladly  tell  it  you. 

Not  such  as  those  you  read  in  books. 
Where  all  is  gay  and  bright, 

’Tis  rain  and  shine  together,  sir. 

That  make  things  true  and  right. 

And  she  was  just  a soldier’s  nurse. 
Not  very  young,  nor  old; 

Her  face  was  furrowed,  tho’  her  hair 
Retained  its  glint  of  gold. 

Nor  was  she  any  beauty,  friend. 

She  practiced  no  fine  arts. 

But  ’tis  not  beauty’s  graceful  forms 
That  hold  the  triiest  hearts, 


138 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


I saw  her  first  time  when  in  camp, 

’Twas  strange,  you  may  be  sure, 

In  those  rough  times  to  see  a girl 
Like  her  ’round  out  of  door. 

She  had  no  fear  of  us  rough  chaps, 

Hut  smiled  sweet,  as  we  lay 
Outside  the  tent,  just  as  she  would 
At  children  there  at  play.  , 

There  wa’n’t  a man  within  the  camp 
Who’d  slight  her  faintest  call. 

And  if  ’twere  needful  not  a few 
For  her  would  give  their  all. 

You  ask  me  why  we  felt  like  this.^ 

Well,  sir,  ’tis  hard  to  tell. 

We  felt  the  strongest  reverence  like. 

And  we’d  protect  her  well. 

And  times  at  evening  when  we’d  hear 
Her  light  dress  rustle  by, 

Adown  tow^ard  the  surgeon’s  tent 
To  give  some  orders,  why — 

Tho’  she  was  known  all  through  the  camp, 
And  never  knew  a fear — 

Why  we’d  steal  after  her  all  armed 
To  see’f  a rough  was  near. 

And  when  I fell  at  Fredricksburg 
With  that  ball  in  my  knee. 


THE  FIOSPITAL  NURSE. 


139 


The  next  thing  I remember,  was 
Her  face  bent  over  me. 

In  sympathy  and  tenderness 
She  whispered  soft  and  low: 

“My  poor,  poor  boy,”  and  there  1 was 
Older  than  her,  I know. 

Her  soft  hands  coolecl  my  burning  brain 
In  heat  that  fever  brings. 

Her  breath  seemed  like  an  incense  rare 
From  angel’s  fluttering  wings. 

Her  voice  seemed  like  yEolian’s  harp. 
Soothing,  and  fond  and  sweet. 

It  made  one  think  of  sounds  he’d  hear 
In  Heaven’s  golden  streets. 

You  think  I am  extravagant 
To  laud  this  woman’s  name, 

But  if  you’d  known  her  as  we  did, 

I know  you’d  say  the  same. 

In  those  rough  times,  but  very  few 
Of  kindly  smiles  vou’d  meet. 

And  times  I’ve  felt  I’d  like  to  kiss 
Where  trod  pure  women’s  feet. 

And  up  and  down  the  long,  low  room 
She  moved  with  softest  tread, 

A bringing  smiles  to  saddest  lips 
As  hovering  o’er  each  bed. 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


She  spoke  the  kindest  words  to  all, 
And  smoothing  each  fair  tress, 

She  softly  stroked  the  fevered  brow 
With  touch  of  tenderness. 

Ah,  I have  seen  the  tender  looks 
They  gave  her  when  she  came. 

And  loving  smiles  of  worship,  too. 
When  e’er  they  spoke  her  name. 

Each  soldier  there  she  called  her  “boy 
They  had  a way  most  cpiaint. 

Of  calling  her,  old  men  like  me. 

Our  “little  mother-saint.” 

The  story  of  her  life  she  told 
To  us  one  weary  day. 

How  a fond  lover  kissed  her  lips 
And  sailed  to  sea  for  aye. 

She  kissed  the  j^ictured  face  of  him 
Who  sleeps  beneath  the  tide. 

And  wept,  and  we  were  sad  for  her. 
An  unwed,  widowed  bride. 

O many  a tale  “ her  boys  ” told  her 
Of  gay,  or  troubled  life; 

Of  many  a rude,  and  kindly  deed 
And  many  a scene  of  strife. 

And  little  tender  tales  of  love 
They  whispered  in  her  ear. 


THE  HOSPITAL  NURSE. 


I4I 


And  many  a message  fond  she  sent 
For  them  to  loved  ones  dear. 

I’ve  seen  her  o’er  a soldier  bend 
To  peep  within  the  case 

He  held,  and  smile  so  softly  as 
He  kissed  the  pictured  face. 

Aye  many  a line  so  dear  she  wrote 
That  made  hearts  light  and  glad, 

And  many  a message  too,  she  sent. 

That  made  them  dark  and  sad. 

For  many  a time  I’ve  seen  her  bow 
Above  a pulseless  breast. 

Cut  from  the  brow  a wayward  curl. 

And  lay  the  hands  at  rest, 

Then  kneel  down  by  the  snowy  cot 
And  clasp  her  hands  in  prayer ; 

O friend,  it  seems  as  if  I saw 
An  angel  hovering  there. 

* % 4s 

We  missed  her  face  one  lonely  week, 

And  she  was  ill,  they  said. 

Then  one  sad  morn  they  brought  us  word, 
Qur  “mother-saint”  was  dead. 

To  each  her  soldier-boys  she  sent 
Her  picture  and  her  love. 

And  bade  us  by  our  country  stand. 

And  meet  her  up  above. 


142 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


And  not  to  mourn.  For  she  had  gone 
To  that  dear  land  of  jo} , 

Ami  rest,  and  peace,  and  love — gone  home 
To  meet  her  sailor  hoy. 

When  I saw  round  the  coffin  there 
Men  young,  mature,  and  grey. 

And  saw  some  with  the  empty  sleeve 
Wipe  tears  of  grief  away, 

And  when  I passed  by  cots  and  heard 
Brave  men  like  children  moan, 

I thought  her  richer,  far,  than  she 
Who  rules  upon  a throne. 

And  if  ’tis  true  that  “each  pure  deed’s 
A grem  in  settingf  srold,” 

o o o ' 

The  crown  she’ll  wear  will  be  worth  more 
Than  worlds  of  wealth  untold. 

Men  may  speak  light  of  women,  friend. 
And  duty  prate  to  her. 

But  her  pure  life  can  save  more  souls 
Than  half  the  preachers,  sir. 


THE  UNFINISHED  LESSON. 

I’ve  shattered  my  idol — ’tis  broken  to-day — 

I’ve  burned  it  to  ashes  of  leaden  and  grey, 

Aye,  broken  and  burned  though  of  gold,  or  of  clay. 


SCHOOL-TIME. 


143 


They  told  me  my  idol  would  bitterness  bring, 

And  over  life’s  pleasure  a dark  shadow  fling, 

And  leave  in  my  sad  heart  an  unhealing  sting. 

’T would  bind  me  with  chains  that  are  stronger  with  years. 
Chains  that  would  tighten  with  all  of  my  fears 
That  ever  would  fret  me  with  troubles  and  tears; 

The  now  sweetened  chalice  to  wormwood  would  turn. 
For  lessons  of  loving  we  all  sadly  learn — 

’Twere  better  by  far,  that  the  idol  should  burn. 

The  page  I was  learning  I here  lay  aside, 

The  form  I have  modeled  in  bitterness  hide. 

And  free  from  all  idols,  I henceforth  abide. 

I’ve  shattered  my  idol — ’tis  broken  to-day — 

Dismantled  and  buried  if  gold  or  if  clay; 

And  chains  that  would  bind  me  are  loosened  for  aye. 


SCHOOL-TIME. 

I listen  to  the  school-bell’s  chime. 
That  sounds  so  drearily. 

Its  iron  tongue  rings  in  my  heart 
With  notes  of  mockery. 

I vainly  wait  the  child’s  command 
That  called  on  me  to  aid 
The  search  for  cap,  or  book,  or  ball. 
His  careless  hand  mislaid. 


144 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


My  heart  aches  for  the  dancing  form ; 

I miss  the  “good  bye”  sweet, 

I long  to  hear  the  slamming  door, 

The  fall  of  pattering  feet; 

I listen  for  the  greeting  shouts 
From  comrade’s  merry  lips, 

And  long  to  catch  the  kiss  he  threw 
Back  from  his  finger  tips. 

I turn  and  gaze  around  the  room, 

And  see  no  garments  lie 
With  playthings  scattered  on  the  floor 
The  children  trooping  by. 

Step  softly,  lightly  on  the  walk. 

With  measured  step  and  slow. 

As  if  they  thought  to  lighten  thus 
A spirit  crushed  with  woe. 

And  some  with  hushed  and  silent  air. 
Halt  by  the  open  gate. 

As  if  in  wonder  that  this  morn 
Their  little  friend  was  late. 

Some  linger  ’neath  the  window-sill. 
And,  pitying,  gaze  at  me — 

God  bless  the  little  tender  hearts 
For  their  pure  sympathy. 

The  moments  sad  I dream  away. 

Till  on  the  echoing  air 
The  last  bell  peals  into  my  brain 
The  call  to  chapel  prayer. 


DO  YOU  REMEMBER,  MAY? 


145 


And  I respond  with  aching  heart; 

Across  the  darkened  room 
I glide,  and  kneel  where  sleeps  a form 
In  all  its  coffined  gloom. 

The  fairy,  waxen,  jDulseless  hands. 
Give  no  clasp  to  my  own. 

On  crystal  lips  of  snow  I feel 
No  fond  caress.  I moan 
In  wildest  grief  above  the  face 
Illumed  with  light  divine. 

And  try  to  say  from  outTny  heart, 
“Thy  will  be  done,  not  mine.” 


DO  YOU  REMEMBER,  MAY? 

Do  you  remember.  May, 

The  walks  we  used  to  take 
In  evening’s  twilight  calm  and  grey 
Through  woodland,  mead  and  brake? 

The  e’en  star  watched  our  way. 

The  blooms  smiled  at  our  feet, 

The  birds  trilled  us  their  good-night  songs 
With  accent  fond  and  sweet. 

Do  you  forget  the  eve 
I took  within  my  own 
Your  hand,  and  told  you  of  my  love? 
Your  eyes  with  fondness  shone; 


146 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


My  heart  was  strangely  glad, 
When  I pressed  love’s  first  kiss 
Upon  your  lips.  1 wonder,  May, 

If  you  remember  this! 

Do  you  remember.  May — 
vSo  far  away  to  me 
It  seems — one  tender  eve  I led 
You  over  hill  and  lea 

Unto  the  little  cot 
Within  a quiet  dell, 

That  some  dear  day  would  be  our  own? 
We  made  sweet  plans  and — well 

It  matters  not,  we  loved 
Each  other  then,  yet  oh. 

It  sometimes  seems  so  strange  to  me 
That  fate  could  change  us  so. 

O’er  wood,  and  moor  and  fen, 

I wandered  yesterday. 

Along  the  same  old  moss-lined  paths 
Our  footsteps  used  to  stray 

In  years  agone.  Within 
The  dell  yet  stands  the  home 
That  we  called  ours  that  eve  we  stood 
Within  the  tender  gloam. 

He  sat  within  the  door 
And  you  sang  soft  and  low. 


LOST  AND  FOUND. 


147 


Just  as  I pictured  we  would  sit 
And  sin^  so  lon^  a^o. 

You  gave  the  draught  I asked, 
And  gaze  upon  my  face 
As  strangers  do.  There  was  no  line 
Familiar  you  could  trace. 

For  time  will  change  us  all, 

For  he  will  have  his  play. 

And  he  changed  all  our  future  years. 
When  he  changed  our  hearts.  May. 

I am  a wanderer. 

And  from  all  care  am  free — 

And  you  live  happy  in  the  home 
Once  built  for  you  and  me. 

I am  content,  nor  hold 
A vain  regret,  but  yet 
Sometimes  I think  I’d  like  to  know 
If  you.  May,  quite  forget. 


LOST  AND  FOUND. 

LOST. 

Lost,  a home  amidst  roses  and  sunshine. 
Where  came  not  a shadow  or  storm. 
Where  tenderest  beams  of  true  love  -light 
Shed  beauty  round  every  dear  form. 


148 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


Lost,  a wife  whose  eyes  beaming  with  gladness, 
Were  full  of  love’s  own  witching  grace; 

And  whose  smiles  full  of  peace  and  contentment 
Bloomed  rare  on  her  beautiful  face. 

Lost  the  children  so  gleeful  and  gifted 
With  purity,  licauty  and  love. 

Whose  immaculate  grace  seemed  but  kindred 
To  that  of  the  beings  above. 

Lost,  a life  that  was  blessed  with  contentment. 
And  friends  true  as  purified  gold. 

And  a heart  that  was  earnest  and  upright. 

Whose  value  can  never  be  told. 

FOUND. 

Found,  a sparkling  glass  in  the  evening. 

With  wretchedness  hidden  therein. 

And  a shelter  from  storm  in  the  alleys. 

Or  houses  of  sorrow  and  sin. 

Found,  a couch  in  the  hard,  frozen  gutters. 

With  stones  there  to  pillow  his  head. 

Where  the  demons  in  dreams  crow^led  round  him, 
And  reptiles  crept  over  his  bed. 

Found,  remorse  was  so  bitterly  taunting 
While  thinking  o’er  sad,  wasted  years. 

That  he  only  drank  deeper  and  deeper. 

The  dregs  that  bring  nothing  but  tears. 


UNDER  THE  STARS. 


149 


Found,  that  reason  must  flee  from  the  demons 
That  fiendishly  crowded  around; 

And  the  dread,  clanking  chains  of  a madman 
Was  all  in  return  he  had  found. 


UNDER  THE  STARS. 

Under  the  stars  he  kissed  her. 

The  first  sweetest,  tenderest  time, 
Their  hearts,  like  the  breeze  of  Elysian, 
Were  singing  a fond,  wordless  rhyme 
And  rustling  leaves  in  the  branches 
Were  playing  a glad,  fairy  chime. 

Under  the  stars  they  parted. 

His  fond  words’were  earnest  and  low, 
With  kisses  all  thrilling  with  rapture 
And  eyes  full  of  hoj^e’s  tender  glow. 
He  whispered : “a  little  while  only 
And  then — darling,  I love  you  so.” 

Under  the  stars  he’s  sleeping 

Fast  fettered  in  death’s  icy  chain. 

The  moon  looks  down  pitifully  tender, 
The  leaves  chant  a mourning  refrain, 
And  she  sobs  alone  in  the  starlight — 
Alone  in  her  desolate  pain. 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


150 


OCTOBER. 

October  calm,  and  cool,  and  sweet. 

In  beauty’s  robes  of  state,  we  greet 
I'hee  fairer  than  the  month  of  May, 

VVdth  thy  rich  leaves  of  gold  and  grey. 

And  silver,  purple,  green  and  brown; 

Like  fairy  missives  flutt’nng  down. 

They  teach  us  all  where  we  must  rest 
In  common  bed  on  nature’s  breast. 

Though  men  have  called  thee  cold  and  sere. 
Thou  art  the  grandest  of  the  year. 

For  summer’s  heat  and  toil  are  done 
And  peace  rests  with  each  weary  one. 

Life’s  fair  October,  calm  and  grey. 

Dear  month  of  beauty  and  decay; 

With  leaves  all  withered,  sere  and  old. 

And  leaves  of  emerald,  ruby,  gold. 

And  somber  lined,  that  crown  each  life 
With  deeds  of  beauty  or  of  strife. 

Just  as  the  bright  leaves  flutter  down. 

With  those  of  amber,  grey,  and  brown, 

So  do  our  deeds  of  good  or  sin. 

Tell  to  the  world  what  life  hath  been. 
October,  with  your  glow  and  rime. 

Life’s  rarest,  dearest  resting  time. 


THE  LOST  CHORD. 


15I 


THE  LOST  CHORD. 

All  clay  have  the  dread  shadows  glided 
Like  ghosts  in  the  terrible  gloom, 

My  lone  spirit  filling  with  darkness 
And  chill,  like  the  fear  of  the  tomb. 

While  slowly  the  drear  twilight  gathers, 
And  evening  her  deep  sadness  brings, 

I open  fond  memories  harpsichord. 

And  sweep  o’er  the  quivering  strings. 

The  chimes  that  I hear  from  the  island 
Far  back  in  the  sea  of  the  past. 

Are  echoes  from  glad  childhood  ringing, 
And,  oh,  too  enchanting  to  last. 

The  notes  of  true  joy  from  my  girlhood. 
Like  carols  of  gay  birds  ring  out — 
The  songs  of  pure  gladness  and  pleasure 
Know  nothing  of  sadness  or  doubt. 

On  over  the  deep,  changing  measures 
Of  rapture,  and  sad,  wordless  jDain, 

Of  rythm  and  discord  I linger. 

And  play  them  again  and  again. 

The  sorrowful  strains  of  the  minor 
I wander  so  thoughtlessly  o’er. 
Recalling  the  dark,  mournful  shadows 
That  haunted  my  pathway  before. 


152 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


The  strains  growing  softer  and  richer, 

Are  soothing  my  heart  of  its  care — 

The  strings  seem  attuned  with  true  gladness, 
The  measures  grow  tender  and  rare. 

Until  in  a grand  soothing  chorus. 

They  swell  like  a Heavenly  song — 

Each  chord  seems  a beautiful  anthem 
The  choir  of  the  unseen  prolong. 

And  oh,  there’s  one  chord  I’ve  awakened 
’Tis  one  that  I lost  long  ago. 

Its  melody  sweeps  o’er  my  spirit. 

Dispelling  those  burdens  of  woe. 

It  lights  up  the  cloud’s  o’er  my  vision. 

The  doubts  of  my  heart  bids  to  cease. 

Flings  open  its  desolate  chambers. 

And  brings  in  the  angel  of  peace. 

And  into  the  halls  so  long  haunted 
By  discord  and  shadows  of  grey. 

The  chord  of  such  Heavenly  sweetness 
Is  locked  there  forever  and  aye. 


AN  ALLEGORY. 

When  God  in  wisdom  infinite 
Conceived  the  thought  of  man. 
Around  his  throne  there  gathered  he. 
Three  servants  of  his  van — 


AN  ALLEGORY. 


153 


Justice,  Truth  and  Mercy  fair, 

He  sought  their  finite  aid — 

“O  servants  of  the  Throne  of  Grace, 

I ask  shall  man  be  made?” 

And  Justice  answered,  frowning  low: 
“O  make  not  man.  Great  God — 

On  laws  he’ll  make  transgressions  dire. 
Rebel  at  thy  just  rod.” 

And  Truth  replied  as  Justice  did, 

“Thy  name  he  will  refute; 

The  sanctuaries  of  thy  grace. 

With  voice  and  hand  pollute.” 

But  Mercy,  kneeling  at  the  throne. 
With  tears  of  love  did  pray: 

“O  God,  make  man,  and  I through  all 
Will  follow  in  his  way.” 


So  man  was  made,  and  thus  spake  God : 
“Go,  child  of  Mercy  free; 

With  all  mankind  be  just  and  true 
And  Mercy  follow  thee.” 

And  thus  it  is,  that  through  life,  man 
His  sins  in  lightness  holds. 

For  Mercy  follows,  and  round  him 
Her  loving  mantle  folds. 


II 


54 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


THE  WORLD  AND  YOU. 

Tlie  world  with  its  smiles  is  alluring, 

Its  praises  are  sweet  to  mv  ear, 

Its  flatt’ry  like  wine  is  entrancing, 

Its  laughter  is  pleasant  to  hear. 

I love  its  gay  crowds  and  its  fashions; 

Its  bright  eyes  that  sparkle  on  me, 

Its  pride  and  its  beauty  and  splendor, 

Its  music  and  bright  repartee. 

And  yet  though  the  gay  world  is  charming. 
How  well,  ah,  how  well  do  I know 
’Tis  hollow  and  false,  and  its  friendship 
Is  fleeting — but  mock’ry  and  show. 

For  should  the  stern  fates  frown  upon  me. 
And  misfortune  shadow  my  name. 

Should  tempests  and  storms  but  assail  me, 
A whisper  but  rise  to  defame, 

The  world  would  care  not  for  my  sorrow. 
And  they  who  smile  sweetly  to-day, 
Would  scatter  like  leaves  of  the  forest 
When  antumn  winds  whirl  them  away. 

But  you,  ah,  I know  ’mid  life’s  sorrows 
Will  steadfastly  stand  by  my  side. 

And  smile  down  upon  me  as  fondly. 
However  the  world  may  deride. 

And  so,  though  I bow  at  the  praises 
And  smile  when  the  flatterers  sue. 

The  dross  at  their  feet  I but  lavish. 

The  gold,  love,  is  treasured  for  you. 


THE  WITCH  IN  THE  CREAM. 


155 


THE  WITCH  IS  IN  THE  CREAM. 

We  ply  the  dash 
With  flirt  and  splash, 

This  is  no  hour  to  dream, 

We  have  no  time 
To  measure  rhyme, 

The  w^itch  is  in  the  cream. 

The  dash  flies  round, 

With  hateful  sound, 

And  'we  impatient  ^row. 

As  crystal  flecked 
And  diamond  specked. 

The  cream  appears  below. 

The  moments  fly, 

An  hour  goes  by. 

And  long  the  seconds  seem, 

We  sit  and  fret 
And  fume,  and  yet 
The  witch  stays  in  the  cream. 

In  these  sad  days 
Of  modern  ways. 

The  horse  shoe  has  no  charm. 

Little  she  cares. 

The  shoe  she  dares. 

Nor  takes  the  least  alarm. 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


156 


Are  there  no  powers 
These  modern  hours, 
The  witch-spell  to  unfold? 
Aye,  patience,  toil. 
Faith,  ice  and  moil, 

Is  sure  to  win  the  gold. 


And  so  the  dash 
We  ply  with  splash. 

Nor  sit  we  down  to  dream. 
Till  foam  we  churned. 

To  gold  is  turned — 

The  witch  has  left  the  cream. 


AT  THE  GATE. 

There’s  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait, 

Till  the  face  of  the  porter  I see, 

Who  will  beckon  and  smile. 

And  will  solve  me  the  while. 

Life’s  wonderful  mystery — 

As  I patiently  wait 
At  the  gate. 

Until  it  be  opened  to  me. 

I lonely  and  wistfully  stand, 

I am  tarnished  with  wrong  arid  with  sin, 
I am  soiled  with  the  dust 
Qf  the. road,  yet  I trust 


AT  THE  GATE. 


■157 


The  One  who  is  watching  within, 

While  I wearily  wait 
At  the  gate, 

Will  pity  and  bid  me  come  in. 

They’re  many  that  pass  through  the  gate. 
There  are  many  turn  sadly  away. 

And  the  dear  ones  that  leave 
Me  their  absence  to  grieve, 

I miss  from  my  side  each  day. 

As  they  pass  through  the  gate 
And  I wait 

My  turn  in  the  silent  array. 

With  hands  idly  folded  I stand, 

Watching  sadly  my  loved  as  they  go. 

I am  schooling  my  feet 
To  stand  still  in  the  street. 

And  learning  a lesson,  I know,  • 

While  I patiently  wait 
At  the  gate. 

So  weary  of  earth  and  its  woe." 

Very  near  to  the  portals  I seem. 

And  I catch  a clear  glimpse  of ‘.the  l)lest. 
As  the  door  widely  swings 
As  if  opened  with  wings. 

Yet  well  do  I know  it  is  best 
That  I patiently  wait  - ’ 

At  the  gate,  • ■ 

E’en  though  I am  longing  to  rest. 


58 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


And  yet  me-thinks  harder  than  all 

Of  the  griefs  that  have  burdened  the  past — 
All  life’s  wearisome  toil, 

All  its  bitter  turmoil, 

Its  days  with  clouds  overcast. 

Is  to  patiently  wait 
At  the  gate 

Until  it  be  opened  at  last. 


UNMASKED. 

One  rare  day  I dreamed,  my  darling. 
That  you  bent  above  my  face 
As  upon  the  couch  I rested. 

And  your  form  I well  could  trace. 
And  I saw  how  changed  your  features 
From  the  look  they  always  wore; 
Full  of  love  they  beamed  upon  me 
As  I never  saw  before. 

I saw,  too,  your  fond  lips  parted 
In  a smile  wondrously  sweet. 

As  I heard  you  whisper,  “Darling,” 
And  my  pulses  wildly  beat. 

Then  your  smiling  face  came  nearer. 
And  your  breath  my  cheek  caressed. 
As  I felt  your  warm  lips  lightly 
On  my  own  in  rapture  pressed. 


BESIDE  THE  STILL  WATERS. 


159 


Then  I started  in  my  dreaming, 

But  I clasped  the  empty  air, 

I awoke,  and  strange!  I found  you 
Sitting  in  my  easy  chair. 

So  intent  upon  a story 

That  you  heard  me  not,  you  say. 
But  I saw  the  book  you  held,  sir, 
Upside  down  as  plain  as  day. 

And  you  never  dare  deny  it. 

Though  so  scornfully  you  smile. 
When  you  tell  me  I was  dreaming 
Just  the  maddest  dream  the  while. 
I was  dreaming,  but  I knew  you, 
And  the  dream  I did  not  make, 

O you  can’t  deceive  me,  darling. 

For  my  soul  was  wide  awake. 


BESIDE  THE  STILL  WATERS. 

In  the  soft,  fading  light  on  the 

Glimmering  strand. 
Where  the  white  ripples  mingle  with 
Gold  of  the  sand. 
Where  the  lingering  sunbeams  in 
Tenderness  play. 

O’er  the  light,  tranquil  waves  of  the 
Slumbering  bay. 


i6o 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


Where  the  peaceful  tides  silently 
Lower  and  swell, 

With  a cadence  like  that  of  a 
Far  distant  bell, 

Here  at  pale  eventide  my  steps 
Stray  as  tliey  will. 

On  the  beautiful  shore  of  the 
Waters  so  still. 

At  my  side,  as  I walk,  is  a 

Footstep  I hear. 

And  my  heart  is  appeased  of  its 
Care  and  its  fear. 

I have  oft  heard  the  step  at  the 
W ailing  of  light. 

And  it  e’er  leads  me  safe  through  the 
Darkest  midnight; 

And  I know  it  full  well — though  His 
Form  I ne’er  see. 

Yet  I know  and  I trust  the  dear 
One  who  leads  me. 

And  with  calmness  of  peace  doth  my 
Trusting  heart  fill. 
When  I hear  his  loved  step  by  the 
Waters  so  still. 

And  some  time  by  the  murmurless 
Wave  I shall  roam. 
Where  the  boatman  awaits  who  will 
Carry  me  home, 

I shall  hear  the  loved  songs  that  the 
Blessed  ones  sing, 


HER  IDEAL. 


l6l 


And  shall  greet  the  soft  breeze  of  each 
Balm  laden  wing; 

1 shall  feel  His  firm  hand  in  the 
Even  time  grey, 

And  shall  know  His  fond  voice  at  the 
Dawning  of  day. 

And  with  rapturous  bliss  shall  my 
Trembling  soul  thrill, 
When  I greet  his  loved  face  by  the 
Waters  so  still. 


HER  IDEAL. 

To-day  she  met  him  on  the  street. 

How  could  she  know  this  same 
Man  sued  her  heart  when  she  was  young. 
And  oft  a wooing  came? 

How  could  she  know 

To  see  him  so. 

She  loved  him  years  ago? 

For  then  he  bore  a princely  form, 

And  he  a hero  seemed. 

And  boasted  youth  and  friends  and  gold ; 

How  tenderly  she  dreamed 
Of  his  loved  face 

Where  was  no  trace. 

Or  stain  one  need  erase. 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


162 


To-day  she  saw  him.  He  had  changed 
How  sadly  since  they  met 
The  last.  His  hair  was  grey,  his  face 
Was  worn  and  wan,  and  yet, 

She  knew  him  well — 

Who  could  foretell 
How  time  this  wreck  would  knell? 

He  scarcely  saw  her  as  he  passed. 

Yet  once,  oh,  he  was  true. 

And  loved  her,  ere  her  fate  was  kind 
And  came  between  these  two. 

Ah  me,  ah  me. 

And  can  it  be 
She  loved  one  such  as  he? 

He  reeled  along  the  street.  His  child 
In  shame  was  leading  him. 

I saw  her  clasp  her  boy  and  thank 
Kind  Heaven,  with  eyes  tear-dim. 
That  no  such  shame — 

Naught  of  defame 
Was  o’er  his  father’s  name. 

How  strange  is  life  and  love. 

And  fate,  sometimes,  how  kind. 

How  often  those  we  vested  grand 
Are  woeful  weak,  we  find. 

For  strange  to  say. 

We  meet  these  stray 
Ideals,  every  day. 


INTO  MISCHIEF. 


163 


INTO  MISCHIEF. 

I s’pose  I’ve  been  in  mischief,  for 
That’s  what  mamma  would  say, 

But  the  temptation  was  so  great 
I could’nt  resist  no  way. 

You  see,  (I  hate  to  tell  it,  for 
May  be  ’twas  awful  bold,) 

I rummaged  through  the  garret  where 
The  things  were  most  as  old 

As  Eve  and  Adam  too.  Well  I 
Went  through  an  oaken  chest. 

And  in  one  corner  found  a box — 

The  cutest  little  nest 

For  lover’s  tokens  ever  was. 

And  just  full  of  ’em  too. 

And  Satan  would’nt  leave  me,  so 
I had  to  look  it  through. 

And  I am  rather  glad  I did. 

You  see,  for  now  I know 
It’s  not  so  wrong  to  be  in  love. 

Though  my  mamma  says  so. 

There  were  some  tokens,  and  the  notes, 
O my!  were  just  divine, 

I copied  lots  of  pretty  things 
To  write  sometime  in  mine. 


164 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


I never  thought  my  staid  papa 
Could  e’er  have  been  so  silly, 

Just  think  of  signing  now  his  name 
“Your  Own  Devoted  \V’'illie.” 

Mamma’s  was  every  bit  as  bad; 

I’m  sure  she  never  thought 

Wdien  lecturing  me  the  other  day 
That  she’d  so  soon  he  caught. 

She  said  to  me:  “When  she  was  young, 

A child  only  sixteen, 

Who  thought  of  any  thing  but  school, 
W'as  not  a trifle  green,” 

And  there  it  is  up  in  the  loft 
All  down  in  black  and  white. 

Papa  gave  her  a ring  upon 
Her  sixteenth  birthday  night. 

Papa  frowns  so  if  Harry  stays 
Till  after  ten,  while  he. 

One  letter  states,  kissed  Ma  goodnight 
A little  after  three; 

Which  means,  most  always  I have  learned 
Till  very  nearly  four. 

And  there  was  such  a lot  of  trash 
I never  saw  before. 


f 


INTO  MISCHIEF. 


165 


There  was  a withered  old  bouquet, 

A motto  ill  it  too, 

A locket,  and  a tiny  glove,' 

And  faded  bow  of  blue. 

Well,  do  you  know  I smiled.  It  was 
The  neatest  “give  away,” 

For,  oh  dear,  how  they  lecture  me 
On  these  things  every  day. 

They’d  make  me  think  there  was  no  love 
If  what  they  say  I’d  mind. 

But  now  I know  when  they  were  young 
They  loved  the  maddest  kind. 

I have  no  doubt  that  silliness 
And  love  to  youth  belong. 

But  if  my  parents  fell  in  love 
It  can’t  be  very  wrong. 

I’spect  these  things  to  me  will  read 
As  foolishly  some  day. 

As  they  do  now  to  Pa  and  Ma — 

When  I am  staid  and  grey; 

But  when  my  girls  are  grown,  you’ll  sec — 
If  ever  comes  that  day — 

I’ll  never  leave  my  letters  ’round 
To  give  me  dead  away. 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


1 66 


WHEN  THE  COWS  COME  HOME. 

When  summer  weaves  her  carpet  green 
Of  softest  shades,  and  twilight  sheen, 

Has  decked  the  meek-eyed  violets  blue 
In  fairy  dress  with  pearls  of  dew; 

When  light  winds  play  a tender  air. 

And  toss  the  curls  of  golden  hair. 

And  touch  the  lips  of  ruby  red 
With  loving  kisses,  and  o’er  head 
The  robin  sings  her  babes  to  rest 
Among  the  leaves  that  hide  her  nest. 

And  trills  her  neighbor  kind  “good-night,” 
As  softly  falls  the  sunset  light. 

Up  through  the  evening’s  quiet  gloam 
The  patient  cows  come  trooping  home. 

The  flowers  that  bloom  upon  the  hills 
Look  fondly  up,  as  care-free  trills 
Of  childish  laughter  float  anear; 

The  crickets  listen  free  of  fear. 

The  minnows  start  within  the  stream 
And  hide  in  beds  where  lilies  dream. 

While  berries  blush  where  sumac  bends 
In  greeting  to  the  childish  friends. 

By  moss-lined  paths  the  hair-ferns  grow. 
And  dandelion  nods  his  locks  of  snow 
To  woodland  bells  so  prim  and  true. 

Who  hide  their  smiles  in  bonnets  blue; 


WHEN  THE  COWS  COME  HOME. 


With  arching  boughs  the  tall  trees  stand, 
Pillars  in  God’s  cathedral  grand. 

Their  naves  take  up  the  ting-a-ling 
Of  chiming  cow  bells,  as  they  ring 
Along  the  path  and  catch  the  strain 
Of  youth-times  innocent  refrain; 

And  sweet  notes  free  from  care  or  woe 
The  saucy  wood-nymphs  backward  throw. 
And  whisper  o’er  the  childish  vows 
Of  sweet-hearts,  bringing  home  the  cows. 

Up  through  the  lane  the  cow  bells  cease. 

The  gates  are  swung.  A calm  of  peace 
Is  over  all,  save  wHlp-poor-will, 

Whose  mocking  roundel  echoes  still; 

The  cows  are  herded,  closed  the  gates. 

The  echoes  sleep,  and  vet  he  waits 
The  prize  he  earned,  ah,  can  it  be. 

That  love,  in  spell  of  witchery. 

Is  weaving  round  each  youthful  heart 
A web  they  do  not  care  to  part? 

For  see,  he  half  in  mirth  and  bliss. 

Bends  low  her  blushing  cheeks  to  kiss. 

And  stars  look  down  and  twinkle,  while 
The  blooms  look  up  and  sweetly  smile. 

* * * * 

O boy  and  girl  of  long  ago. 

Ye’ve  counted  many  a winter’s  snow. 

And  summer’s  storm,  until  the  blight 

Has  changed  youth’s  locks  to  threads  of  white 


68 


LKISUKK  HOUR  I'OEMS. 


15ut  summer’s  gold  is  treasured  where — 
With  winter’s  silver — naught  of  care 
Or  life-time  pain,  can  ever  rust 
Love’s  treasure  rare,  or  change  to  dust. 

And  as  at  eve  the  cpiiet  train 
Of  cows  come  trooping  up  the  lane. 

The  withered  hands  tenderly  cling 
In  silent  press,  as  wide  gates  swing 
And  trooping  in  come  memories  old 
That  never  lose  youth’s  tinge  of  gold. 
The  cow  bell’s  chime,  the  childish  song, 
Like  echoes  seem  that  years  prolong; 

And  youthful  strains  the  birds  trill  o’er; 
The  stars  smile  down  in  love  once  more. 
And  old  hearts  whisper  youth-time  vows. 
As  homeward  come  the  j^atient  cows. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 

How  she  smiled  last  night  and  seemed  not  to  care 
When  he  gazed  on  her  o’er  the  dancers  there; 

And  his  lips  curled  oft  with  a proud  disdain. 

And  her  brain  beat  wild  in  its  fevered  pain. 

And  her  heart  was  chill  while  her  wild  blood  turned 
To  a redder  hue  as  her  flushed  cheeks  burned; 

But  she  laughed  and  danced  lest  they  all  should  know 
How  her  being  thrilled  with  the  throes  of  woe. 


IDOLS. 


[69 


And  how  could  he  know  that  her  poor  soul  cried, 
To  be  freed  for  aye  from  the  chains  of  pride — 

That  her  pleading  glance  rested  oft  on  him, 

For  his  eyes  were  veiled  with  a mask  so  grim 
That  he  only  saw  how  she  smiled  again 
At  the  flatt’ry  fair  from  the  lips  of  men. 

As  she  gaily  danced.  But  her  heart  was  lead. 

And  her  eyes  were  bright  with  the  tears  unshed. 

Yet  her  feet  were  light  in  the  whirling  waltz. 

And  her  mood  was  gay,  and  he  thought  her  false. 
But  how  could  she  weep  ’mid  the  dancers  gay. 

Lest  they  knew  she  sorrowed  her  heart  away? 

And  he  came  not  near,  but  within  the  dim. 

Shaded  corner  stood  like  a watcher  grim. 

And  he  watched  her  dance  with  a haughty  smile 
On  her  parted  lips,  and  yet  all  the  while 

How  his  fond  eyes  gazed  with  a burning  glance 
That  pierced  her  heart  through  like  a cutting  lance. 
But  amid  the  dancers  how  could  he  know 
That  her  heart  beat  wild  in  the  throes  of  woe. 


IDOLS. 

How  carefully  and  tenderly 
We  rear  them  every  day. 

And  build  them  fair  and  grand,  and  place 
From  earthly  eyes  away. 

Within  the  temple  we  have  decked 
In  beautiful  array. 


12 


LKISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


And  how  we  turn  in  horror  deep 
At  stories  often  told, 

Of  heathens  who  have  knelt  and  praised, 
Their  i^ods  of  clay  or  gold. 

Hut  yesterday  we  placed  our  trust 
In  one  we  called  a friend. 

To-day  we  bow  before  a face 
That  new  enchantments  lend. 

To-morrow,  ah,  we’ll  gather  up 
Some  fragments,  with  a groan 
Of  fallen  gods.  Yet  on  our  lips 
To  smiles  will  turn  the  moan. 

As  we  gaze  on  the  idol  fair. 

Of  gold  that  we  enthrone. 

Our  God  is  hut  a jealous  God, 

Wdiat  wonder  that  the  fates 
Do  laugh  where’er  the  ruins  lie 
Of  idols  man  creates. 

And  lie  hath  bless’d,  yea,  doubly  blessed. 
Him  who  can  gaze  and  smile. 

On  ashes  of  his  hopes  and  trust. 

Within  the  funeral  pile! 


THE  LOVE-VINE. 

She  stood  beside  the  love-vine  true. 
And  plucked  the  hud  laden  with  dew. 


THE  LOVE-VINE. 


I71 


The  moon  shone  down  in  tender  light, 
Upon  the  mystic  blooms  of  white. 

She  gazed  in  thoughtful  mood,  then  pressed 
The  foam  like  blooms  to  lips  and  breast. 

And  unobserved,  in  wonderment, 

A lover  listened  with  intent. 

“I  wish,”  she  said,  “I  wish  that  he, 

As  much  as  I lofe  him,  loves  me. 

And  if  my  love  comes  not  to  woe, 

I wish  that  he  might  tell  me  so.” 

She  swung  the  blossoms  o’er  her  head. 

And  on  the  air  their  perfume  shed. 

He  caught  the  love-vine  as  it  fell. 

And  clasped  the  maid:  “O  love,  ’tis  well,” 

He  cried,  “that  fate  this  fairy  sign. 

Should  give  from  your  hand  into  mine.” 

“My  heart,  dear  one,  holds  none  but  thee. 
Was  that  fond  wish,  sweet,  made  for  me?” 

Low  sank  her  head  upon  his  breast. 

And  as  his  lips  her  brow  caressed, 

The  lids  drooped  o’er  the  e}"es  of  blue. 

“My  wish,”  she  faltered,  “love,  came  true.” 


172 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


SHAME  ON  THE  MAN. 

O shame  on  the  man  who  goes  out  in  the  world 
With  a smile  on  his  lips  all  the  day, 

Who  fawns  on  the  crowd  as  it  fast  hurries  by, 

That  cares  not  for  him  or  his  way. 

Who  carries  a tongue  that  is  merry  with  jests. 

Who  is  pleasant  where’er  he  may  roam. 

But  only  has  scowls,  and  ^larls,  and  growls. 

For  the  ones  at  home. 

A niggard  is  he  who  e’er  toils,  scrimps  and  saves. 

Just  to  lay  it  all  by  on  the  shelf. 

He ’s  worse  who  cheats  home  of  its  comforts  and  joys. 
And  spends  all  his  gold  on  himself. 

But  meaner  than  these  is  the  husband  who  smiles 
On  his  fellows  where  e’er  he  may  roam. 

And  only  has  scowls,  and  sneers,  and  growls. 

For  his  own  at  home. 

For  little  the  world  cares  for  him  or  his  smiles. 

He  is  naught  but  an  atom  of  dust; 

While  he  7nay  be  king  in  a realm  of  his  own. 
Surrounded  by  love  and  by  trust. 

So  shame  on  the  man  who  defrauds  his  loved  ones — 
Who  wastes  all  his  smiles  as  he  roams. 

And  only  has  scowls,  and  snarls,  and  growls. 

For  the  ones  at  home. 


MATILDA  THE  SPINSTER. 


173 


MATILDA  THE  SPINSTER. 

Matilda  the  spinster  was  sitting  alone, 

Within  the  cool  shade  of  a roof  all  her  own. 

Her  rippling  tresses  were  threaded  with  grey, 

Her  apron  was  spotless,  and  this  was  the  way 
She  talked  to  herself  as  she  rocked  to  and  fro, 
A-knitting  and  knitting  and  telling  her  woe. 

“Yes,  I’ve  had  my  chances,  as  well  as  the  rest. 

But  I refused  all  of  ’em,  even  the  best, 

I might  have  been  married  to  Thomas  McClue, 

And  borne  his  twelve  children  and  now  bake  and  stew, 
While  he  growls  and  grumbles  and  knocks  ’em  about; 
Like  pirates  they  quarrel  and  blaspheme  and  shout. 

“And  there’s  that  old  toper,  Theopolus  Brown, 

He  threatened  himself  to  behead,  shoot  or  drown. 
When  I declined  firmly  his  circlet  to  wear, 

A caution  ’twas  truly  the  way  he  did  tear. 

The  very  next  week,  why  he  wed  Kitty  White, 

And  now  he  comes  home  on  a spree  every  night. 

“A  hopeless  old  gambler  is  that  Charlie  Ladd, 

He’s  frittered  away  every  cent  that  he  had. 

His  wife  takes  in  washing  to  keep  ’em,  poor  dear. 

And  I. give  the  girls  a new  suit  every  year. 

“And  old  Joseph  Grey,  he  and  work  ne’er  agree. 

He’ll  die  in  the  poor-house  as  sure  as  can  be. 

His  wife  is  half  starved  and  his  children  are  pale. 


174 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


But  little  he  cares  for  their  pitiful  wail, 

As  long  as  he  gets  all  he  wishes  to  eat. 

He  cares  hut  to  gossip  and  loaf  in  the  street. 

“And  there’s  Jamie  Winters,  he’s  crazy,  they  say. 
He’s  sense  enough,  mind  you,  to  get  his  own  way; 
There ’s  only  one  man  in  the  world  who  is  great. 
And  he  is  that  mortal  as  chosen  by  fate. 

He  preaches  religion  for  others  to  live; 

Knows  only  the  charity  other  folks  give. 

He  advocates  rights  of  our  sex  with  applause — 

But  his  wife’s  a slave  if  there  ever  one  was. 

“There’s  minister  Twaddle,  How  dull  it  must  be 
For  his  wife  to  listen  to  sermons  that  she 
Herself  writes  while  he  lays  stretched  out  at  his  ease 
A-grumbling  because  his  pants  gape  at  the  knees; 
And  Saturday  nights  she  does  up  his  one  shirt. 

And  day  after  day  the  boys  play  in  the  dirt. 

“And  there’s  Herbert  Green,  who’s  been  ill  all  his  life. 
He’s  lively  enough  when  he’s  heating  his  wife; 

My!  how  he  did  rave — his  face  fairly  was  blue. 
When  I told  him  my  purse  could  ne’er  support  two. 

“A  chronic  old  widower’s  Uriah  Stowe. 

He  married  five  women  and  planted  ’em  low; 

They  share  the  same  head-stone  and  peacefully  lie. 
What  joy  it  must  be  to  so  dutifully  die, 

To  glorify  one  precious  being  of  eartb. 

As  bald  as  a pumpkin  almost  from  his  birth. 


PETER-BIRD. 


175 


“There’s  Theodore  Jenkenproud.  He  ran  away, 
With  all  his  wife’s  money  and  jewels  one  day; 

The  prettiest  servant  girl  took  with  him  too, 

The  town  could  afford.  Well  it  looked  awful  blue 
Awhile  for  his  wife,  but  she  finally  went 
To  live  with  relations,  but  has’nt  a cent. 

“Ah,  yes,  such  is  life.  Now  I might  have  been 
The  wife  proud  and  happy  of  any  these  men, 

But  I sadly  frittered  my  chances  away. 

My  teeth  are  all  out  and  my  locks  are  all  grey. 

My  lot  is  full  easy,  but  some  how,  they  own, 

’Tis  joy  to  see  ‘Mrs.’  upon  one’s  grave  stone. 

“I  might  have  been  happy  as  well  as  the  rest. 

Its  no  use  repining.  Perhaps  it  is  best.” 

As  slily  we  children  slipped  out  of  the  door 
Unnoticed  and  grinning  in  silent  encore, 

A poor,  lonely  tear  drop  rolled  down  to  the  floor. 


PETER-BIRD. 

Saucy  bird  you  drive  me  frantic. 

What  mean  you  by  every  antic? 
How  you  dance  upon  the  bushes 
While  the  artful  Mary  blushes. 
Something  sure  you  must  be  screening 
Bird,  and  I must  know  its  meaning. 
Pluming  wings  with  saucy  flutter 
All  the  notes  you  deign  to  utter 
Is  “Peter,”  “Peter.” 


176 


LEISURE  HOUR  POEMS. 


Peter,  Peter.  Peter  who.^ 

Tell  me,  bird,  oh,  tell  me,  do. 

Is  he  short  or  is  he  tall. 

Is  lie  medium  lar^e  or  small; 

Is  he  handsome,  is  he  plain. 

Is  he  wicked,  wise  or  vain. 

Is  he  humble,  crafty,  bold, 

Is  he  youthful,  is  he  old. 

Is  he  wealthy,  is  he  poor? 

Does  he  seek  to  win  her  heart 
By  the  help  of  wily  art? 

Tell  me,  bird,  oh,  tell  me,  do. 

Peter-bird  you’re  so  contrary, 

Its  no  use  to  question  Mary; 

She’ll  say  naught  but  stand  there  blushing- 
Artful  maiden — vainly  hushing 
You  to  silence.  Is  she  merely 
Teasing  me?  I’d  like  so  dearly. 

Bird,  to  know.  You  stand  there  seeming 
Like  a spit-fire,  only  screaming, 
“Peter,”  “Peter!” 

Peter,  Peter.  Peter  who? 

Tell  me,  bird,  now  tell  me,  do. 

Did  he  call  her  “Daisy,”  “Pearl,” 

Or  the  dearest,  sweetest  girl?” 

Did  he  press  her  finger  tips? 

Did  he  touch  her  dainty  lips? 

Was  she  arch  or  was  she  sly. 

Was  she  artful,  bold  or  shy? 


PETER-BIRD. 


177 


Does  she  lavish  fondest  smiles, 

Bird,  on  him?  If  this  is  so 
1 shall  cause  this  Peter  woe; 

Tell  me,  bird,  oh,  tell  me,  do. 

Little  spit-fire  are  you  jealous? 

So  am  I,  and  I am  zealous. 

Bird,  to  know  who  is  this  Peter, 

That  you  wot  of.  Does  he  meet  her 
In  the  glen  or  in  the  garden.^ 

What  has  caused  your  heart  to  harden, 
That  you  only  sit  and  taunt  me 

With  the  words  that  ever  haunt  me, 
“Peter,”  “Peter!” 

Peter,  Peter.  Peter  who? 

Tell  me,  bird,  oh  tell  me,  do. 

Does  she  flirt  to  pass  the  time? 

Will  she  wear  his  ring  or  mine? 

Does  she  mean  it,  bird,  think  you. 

When  she  says  she  loves  me  true? 

Ah,  you  nod  your  head,  and  she 
Smiles  and  blushes.  Teasing  me 
You’ve  been  all  this  time,  you  sprite, 

I must  have  the  sweetest  kiss. 

On  her  lips  to  pay  for  this. 

Tell  me,  bird,  oh,  would’nt  you? 


THE  END. 


m 


